THE  LIBRARY 

OF 

THE  UNIVERSITY 
OF  CALIFORNIA 

LOS  ANGELES 


WOMEN  MUST  WEEP 


EDGAR  FAWCETT'S  OTHER  WRITINGS 

FICTION 

RUTHERFORD 

A  GENTLEMAN  OF  LEISURE 
A    HOPELESS  CASt 
AN  AMBITIOUS  WOMAN 
TINKLING  CYMBALS 
THE   ADVENTURES  OF  A  WIDOW 
THE   CONFESSIONS  OF  CLAUD 
THE   HOUSE  AT  HIGH  BRIDGE 
.  OLIVIA    DELAPLAINE 
A  MAN'S  WILL 
DOUGLAS   DUANE 
SOLARION 
DIVIDED   LIVES 
MIRIAM    BALESTIER. 
A  DEMORALIZING  MARRIAGE 
THE  EVIL  THAT  MEN  DO 
A  DAUGHTER  OF  SILENCE 
FABIAN    DIMITRY 
HOW  A  HUSBAND  FORGAVE 
A  ROMANCE  OF  TWO  BROTHERS 
A  NEW  YORK  FAMILY 
LOADED   DICE   (In  press) 

HUMOROUS  VERSE 

THE  BUNTLING  BALL 
THE  NEW  KING  ARTHUR 
MISCELLANEOUS 

SOCIAL  SILHOUETTES 
AGNOSTICISM,  AND  OTHER  ESSAYS 

POETRY 

FANTASY  AND  PASSION 
SONG  AND  STORY 
ROMANCE  AND   REVERY 
SONGS  OF  DOUBT  AND  DREAM 


LIBRARY  OP  CHOICE  F1CTIOX 


WOMEN  MUST  WEEP 


A   NOVEL 


For  women  must  weep"— CHARLES  KINGSLEY. 


BY  EDGAR  FAWCETT 

AUTHOR  OF  "AN  AMBITIOUS  WOMAN,"  "A  GENTLEMAN  OF  LEISURE, 
"ANEW  YORK  FAMILY,"  "SOCIAL  SILHOUETTES,"  ETC. 


CHICAGO 

LAIRD  &  LEE,  PUBLISHERS 


Entered  according  to  Act  of  Congress,  in  the  year  1891,  by  LAIRD  & 
LEE,  in  the  office  of  the  Librarian  of  Congress,  at  Washington. 
All  rights  reserved. 


PS 


WOMEN  MUST  WEEP 

CHAPTER  I 

JUST  where  West  Eleventh  street  is  so  queerly  de- 
flected into  a  south-ward  course  by  the  cross-cut  of 
Greenwich  avenue  and  the  abrupt  birth  of  Seventh, 
you  may  find,  among  the  plain  brick  dwellings,  a 
sprinkling  of  smaller  structures,  two-storied,  and  even 
plainer  still.  Into  one  of  these,  death  had  of  late  en- 
tered, and  his  coming  had  been  marked  by  many 
tears. 

Isaac  Trask  had  just  died,  and  lay  now  in  his  own 
little  plot  at  Greenwood,  beside  the  wife  who  had 
gone  years  before.  His  three  daughters  felt  the  awful 
loneliness  that  followed  his  loss,  walking  about  the 
rooms  of  their  little  home  and  staring  at  one  another 
now  and  then  with  wide,  worried,  tearless  eyes.  At 
intervals,  they  would  meet  and  talk  of  him,  after  each 
had  pretended  to  busy  herself  with  some  task  else- 
where. Eunice,  the  eldest  of  them,  was  young,  and 
Annette,  the  youngest,  was  a  mere  slip  of  a  girl.  They 
looked  so  strange  to  one  another  in  their  black  robes, 
and  the  house  was  so  still,  with  that  queer  stillness  ' 
which  seems  always  listening  for  a  step !  At  almost 
any  time  of  day,  he  was  wont  to  come  in  from  the 

(7) 


WOMEN  MUST  WEEP 


"store,"  which,  stood  just  a  stone-throw  off,  in  Green- 
wich avenue,  and  which  flared  behind  its  big  polished 
window  two  monstrous  bottles  of  red  and  of  blue 
liquid,  in  the  old-fashioned  style  that  Broadway  and 
Fifth  avenue  apothecaries  have  long  since  chosen  to 
desert.  Hundreds  called  him  "Doctor"  Trask,  though 
he  had  no  right  to  the  title,  and  not  seldom  \vould 
declare  that  he  had  none ;  but  it  had  often  been  said 
of  him  that  he  deserved  this  form  of  address  far  more 
than  many  practitioners — and  no  doubt  with  excel- 
lent truth.  It  had  grown  clear,  too,  that  he  was 
excessively  beloved  in  the  neighborhood,  and  that  his 
medical  help  among  the  poor  had  been  the  chief  cause 
of  this  devotion.  But  there  had  been  other  causes, 
as  the  keen,  popular  cry  of  dismay  and  grief  at  his 
death  surely  showed. 

"Girls!  Where  are  you,  girls?  "his  great  blithe 
voice  would  call,  at  any  hour  when  he  chanced  to 
"drop  in  at  the  house;"  and  always  one  of  the  three 
would  answer  "Here,  pa,"  and  come  to  him,  for  a 
word,  perhaps  a  stroke  of  the  hair,  perhaps  a  kind  of 
drolly  perfunctory  kiss,  behind  which  lay  a  world  of 
paternal  love. 

No  wonder  that  these  three  orphaned  maidens  now 
missed  him  as  they  did.  His  going  had  been  so  hor- 
ribly sudden.  In  the  twinkling  of  an  eye,  he  had  been 
torn  from  them,  this  robust  man,  with  his  dark  beard 
but  faintly  silvered  and  his  body  such  a  seeming  oak 
of  strength. 

"Only  think,"  murmured  Dora,  the  second  sister, 
after  the  girls  had  drifted  together  again  that  after- 
noon in  the  "little  back  parlor,"  and  had  each  sunk 
droopingly  into  the  first  seat  that  offered,  "he  took 
me  sleighing  a  week  ago  this  very  day!  And  I've  never 


WOMEN  MUST  WEEP 


seen  him  jollier— never ! "  "He  never  knew  the  name 
of  low  spirits,"  declared  Eunice,  who  said  nearly  ev- 
erything with  emphasis,  and  had  a  repute  for  intellect 
and  force  of  character.  She  was  not  pretty  at  all ; 
her  color  was  nearly  always  too  high,  and  her  features 
lacked  harmony;  but  she  had  honest,  brown  eyes, 
•white  teeth,  and  a  womanly  air  of  being  better  than 
some  of  her  passing  moods  might  at  all  times  disclose. 
Her  friends,  though  few,  liked  her  more  in  their  way 
than  did  her  acquaintances  in  theirs.  To  her  sisters 
she  was  often  an  autocrat,  yet  at  best  a  very  loving 
one.  Her  chief  fault  was  a  tendency  to  approve  or 
disapprove  all  people  who  came  within  her  ken — 
sometimes  even  to  lecture  and  scold  them,  while  con- 
stantly showing  them  that  they  had  either  succeeded 
or  failed  in  the  winning  of  her  good  graces.  "But  I 
wouldn't  speak  of  him  as  jolly,"  she  continued;  "it 
somehow  don't  sound  reverent,  Dora,  at  a  time  like 
this." 

"Pooh,"  said  Dora,  with  sombre  rebellion,  from 
the  lounge  where  she  lolled.  "I  guess  pa  knows 
how  bad  /feel — or  he  would  know,  if " 

"Oh,  don't,  Dora!"  exclaimed  Annette,  with  a 
sudden  pained  start.  She  had  lately  joined  the 
church — a  Baptist  one — and  had  been  baptized 
there  in  the  hectic  flurry  of  a  "revival,"  tender  as 
were  her  years.  "I  know  just  what  you're  going 
to  say,  and  please  don't  say  it." 

"Annette's  right,"  pronounced  Eunice.  "You 
oughtn't  to  hurt  her  feelings." 

' '  I  guess  I  can  express  my  own,  though,  if  I  want 
to,"  said  Dora,  stoutly.  "Annette  can  believe  as 
she  pleases,  but  nobody  knows  a  thing!"  Here 
Dora's  limpid  blue  eyes  clouded  with  tears  under 


10  WOMEN  MUST  WEEP 

her  curly  gold  crown  of  low-growing  hair,  and  she 
threw  both  hands  upward  with  a  gesture  of  pa- 
thetic dissent.  "Oh,"  she  went  on,  in  a  sob-broken 
voice,  "if  there's  any  heaven  that  has  got  pa  now, 
I'm  sure  he  don't  like  it  there  half  as  much  as  he — 
liked— it— here  "  (she  could  scarcely  speak  the  next 
words) — " here  among  all  of  us  that  loved  him  so ! " 

Annette  sprang  forward, — a  dark,  thin  girl,  with 
a  face  of  the  most  sensitive  cut.  "  You  mustn't  talk 
that  way,  Dora — you  mustn't!"  she  cried,  and 
flung  both  frail  arms  about  her  sister.  "Pa's  an 
angel  now— a  beautiful  white- winged  angel !  " 

Dora  kissed  the  face  that  had  come  so  close  to 
her  own ;  but  \vhile  the  tears  half  choked  her,  she 
managed  to  reply  with  that  humor  which  had  won 
from  her  dead  father  many  a  golden  laugh : 

"  Oh,  mercy!  I — I  can  just  see  poor  pa  pestered 
with  a  pair  of  wings !  How  mad  he'd  get  if  they 
didn't  work  right !  "  Wouldn't  he,  girls  ?  " 

Eunice  came  over  to  Dora,  now,  shaking  her 
head  in  great  rebuke,  and  yet  laughing  with  soft, 
irrepressible  laughter.  She  circled  each  of  her  sis- 
ters' backs  with  an  arm,  and  for  a  moment,  inter- 
twined thus,  the  trio  made  a  picture  of  exquisite, 
unconscious  charm.  They  all  three  laughed  to- 
gether. .  was  not  Dora  the  wit  of  the  family,  and 
would  not  poor,  dear  pa  himself  have  laughed  if  he 
had  been  there  ?  But  it  was  mirth  with  no  hint  in 
it  of  anything  but  a  sort  of  gentle  reactionary  hys- 
teria, and  it  even  bore  its  tribute  of  filial  devotion  as 
well.  And  yet  the  girls  looked  suddenly  at  one 
another  with  shocked  faces,  and  Eunice  almost 
haughtily  withdrew  herself,  saying: 

"Upon  my  word,  Dora!  There's  a  time  for  every- 


WOMEN  MUST  WEEP  ll 

thing.  Of  course,  you  didn't  mean  wrong,  but  ap- 
pearances must  be  kept  up,  you  know." 

Dora  tossed  her  blonde  head.  "  Oh,"  she  said,  with 
a  sort  of  weary  wildness,  "  I  just  feel  like  flinging  ap- 
pearances, as  you  call  'em,  to  Kalamazoo!  It  was 
the  last  thing  we  ever  dreamed  would  happen,  and 
here  it  is,  down  on  us  like  the  falling  of  the  sky !  " 

She  leaned  her  head  back  against  the  tufted  lounge 
and  stared  up  at  the  ceiling  with  a  certain  air  of  dis- 
trust, as  though  she  felt  that  this,  too,  might  drop 
and  crush  her.  Meanwhile  Annette  had  taken  one  of 
her  limp  hands  between  both  her  own  and  begun  to 
press  it  against  her  lips  and  fondle  it. 

"Oh,  Dora,"  said  Annette,  "if  you  could  only  feel 
about  him  as  I  do,  it  would  give  you  such  comfort !  " 

"But  I  can't,"  muttered  Dora,  stolidly,  while  she 
still  stared  at  the  ceiling;  "I  can't,  and  neither  does 
Eunice.  Do  you?"  she  abruptly  cried,  leveling  a 
glance  at  her  elder  sister. 

Thus  assailed,  as  it  were,  Eunice  recoiled  a  little. 
She  was  not  religious,  and  her  clear  mind  kept  her 
from  being  even  wholly  orthodox.  But  her  place  as 
feminine  head  of  the  household  vetoed  unconven- 
tional revolts. 

"  I  think  faith  a  splendid  thing  to  have,"  she  said. 
"  Who  doesn't  ?  "  "  You're  trimming,  Eunice,"  Dora 
now  said  to  her,  rather  sharply.  You  do  trim  a  good 
deal ;  I've  told  you  so  before ;  most  folks  with  brains 
get  into  the  way  of  it.  How  glad  we  ought  to  be, 
Annette,  oughtn't  we,  that  we're  a  pair  of  perfect 
fools?" 

Annette  took  no  notice  of  this  some  what  dreamily- 
spoken  brutality.  She  continued  to  pat  and  stroke 
her  sister's  hand  while  she  said : 


12  WOMEN  MUST  WEEP 

"  You'd  think  so  much  more  happily  of  poor  pa  if 
you'd  only  believe  as  I  do  !  For  you  were  his  favorite, 
Dora.  You  know  you  were ;  and — " 

"No,  no!"  struck  in  Eunice.  "Pa  didn't  have 
any  favorites.  He  loved  us  all  three  just  the 
same." 

Still  holding  Dora's  hand,  Annette  looked  at  her 
elder  sister  with  those  great  dark  eyes  which  her  pale- 
ness made  larger  and  vivider.  "But  he  always  cared 
so  for  Dora's  jokes,"  she  said.  "  He  used  to  kiss  her 
and  take  her  on  his  knee  oftener  than  he  did  MS,  Eu- 
nice. At  least,  it  seems  so  now." 

"He  loved  us  all  three  just  the  same!"  repeated 
Eunice,  with  the  oddest  kind  of  pathos  and  coldness 
blent  in  her  voice  and  mien.  "We  mustn't  think  of 
him,"  she  \vent  on,  in  her  most  admonitory  and  ma- 
ternal way,  "as  caring  for  one  of  us  the  least  speck 
more  than  the  other.  We  mustn't.  It's  disrespect  to 
him.  Why,  suppose  that  one  of  us  should  be  taken 
just  as  he  was?" 

"Oh,  Eunice !"  cried  Annette,  running  over  to  the 
speaker  and  falling  at  her  feet. 

"It  might  happen,"  said  Eunice,  with  her  hand  on 
Annette's  hair.  "Why  not?  And  if  it  did  happen, 
would  the  two  that  were  left  think  that  she  who'd 
gone  hadn't  loved  them  both  the  same  ?  " 

This  question  seemed  to  pierce  Dora,  for  now  she 
too  rose  and  came  over  to  join  the  others-;  and  then 
these  three  poor  mourners  intertwined  again  and 
looked  into  one  another's  eyes,  as  though  to  say  thus, 
without  words,  how  horrible  a  thing  it  would  be  if 
any  of  them  should  really  die.  For  while  they  had 
greatly  loved  their  lost  father,  and  missed  him  almost 
as  the  meadow  misses  the  sun,  he  was  still  apart  from 


WOMEN  MUST  WEEP  13 


that  intensity  of  union  which  they  had  made,  since 
childhood,  among  themselves. 

It  was  all  a  very  lovely  and  beautiful  union,  and  it 
held,  as  one  might  say,  the  quintessence  of  that  sort 
of  fondness  which  so  often  haunts,  odor-like,  the  fire- 
side, the  home.  Their  mother's  early  death  may  have 
had  much  to  do  with  this  richer  note  and  accent  of 
sisterhood.  They  had  clung  together  in  more  than  a 
merely  physical  manner,  each  giving  to  each  some  del- 
icate spiritual  aliment,  whether  of  guardianship, 
counsel,  sympath}'-  or  pure  affection.  They  had  not 
realized  the  full  strength  of  their  own  interdependence 
until  they  began  to  mark  the  difference  bet-ween  other 
sisters  and  themselves.  But  perhaps  even  then  the 
whole  realization  did  not  take  place.  Their  mutual 
regard  would  have  been  less  charming  than  it  was  if 
tinctured  with  any  conscious  flavor.  In  fact  it  had 
none  whatever,  and  clothed  their  communions  with 
the  naturalness  of  alders  clothing  a  brook-bank. 

"If  pa  could  tell  us  anything,"  said  Dora,  breaking 
the  little  silence  which  had  fallen  upon  their  new- 
formed  group,  "it  would  be  that  we  should  drive 
away  black  thoughts  about  death,  and  remember 
that  we  may  all  three  live  to  get  false  teeth  and  wear 
glasses  as  strong  as  telescopes." 

"Yes,  life  has  got  to  be  lived,"  said  Eunice,  frown- 
ing away  a  smile.  "The  heartache  isn't  cured  by 
brooding  over  it ...  Girls,"  she  pursued,  sinking  her 
voice,  "you  know  what  aunt  'Liza  told  us  about  the 
way  pa  left  his  affairs." 

Dora  nodded.  "There  wasn't  any  will,  was 
there?" 

"No,"  said  Eunice.  "But  it  isn't  only  that,  you 
know.  Most  of  pa's  property  was  in  those  two 


WOMEN  MUST  WEEP 


Greenwich  avenue  houses;  and  there's  a  mortgage  on 
both,  it  seems." 

"What  is  a  mortgage,  anyhow?"  asked  Annette. 

Eunice  gave  a  little  sapient  cough,  and  was  about 
to  follow  it  by  some  phrases  of  explanation  whose 
dignity  might  have  exceeded  their  truth,  when  the 
front-door  bell  rang,  and  soon  aunt  'Liza,  otherwise 
Mrs.  Heffernan,  joined  her  sad-faced  nieces.  An  elderly 
woman,  with  so  much  flesh  that  it  made  her  head 
and  face  look  a  degree  or  so  too  small  for  her  body, 
Mrs.  Heffernan  wore  a  dark  robe  and  a  bonnet  quite 
as  dismal,  except  for  one  or  two  little  sprays  of  funereal 
purple.  This  costume  had  its  deferential  meanings, 
and  Mrs.  Heffernan  could  afford  such  tributes  in  the 
line  of  dress.  It  would  have  been  almost  droll  for 
her  to  don  permanent  mourning,  since  her  late  broth- 
er-in-law had  always  detested  her  husband,  Mr. 
Andrew  J.  Heffeman,  his  character,  his  trade,  his 
associates  and  his  creeds.  Long  ago  she  had  married 
a  bar-keeper,  who  now  owned  four  large  liquor  sa- 
loons and  was  an  Ajax  of  power  in  New  York  politics. 
This  marriage  had  been  a  horror  to  her  quiet  Amer- 
ican kindred,  whose  social  place  might  broadly  be 
described  as  middle-class,  though  upper-class  might 
mean  a  grade  which  in  this  land  and  town  is  still 
harder  to  define.  But  Eliza  Bassett  had  had  her  will, 
and  when  her  sister,  Eunice,  had  soon  afterward  mar- 
ried the  Greenwich  avenue  apothecary,  with  a  business 
repute  as  bright  and  stainless  as  the  plate-glass  win- 
dow which  augment  of  good  fortune  enabled  him, 
later  on,  to  secure,  this  second  alliance  was  held  as 
in  a  manner  palliating  the  odium  of  the  first.  Then 
had  come  the  growing  Heffernan  prosperity,  which 
had  proved  a  thorn  in  the  flesh  of  Isaac  Trask.  There 


WOMEN  MUST  WEEP  15 

were  times  when  he  was  on  the  verge  of  forbidding 
the  girls  even  to  visit  "aunt  'Liza."  But  this,  herec- 
ognized,  would  have  been  cruelty  to  her,  since  she 
was  childless  and  loved  his  daughters.  Still,  on  more 
than  one  occasion  he  had  remorselessly  snubbed  Mr. 
Heffernan  himself.  His  children  had  been  brought  up 
to  hold  themselves  haughtily  above  the  whole  con- 
nection. '  'Andy"  Heffernan  could  have  afforded,  long 
since,  to  snap  his  fingers  at  the  apothecary  who  had 
married  his  sister.  He  had  bought  several  houses 
up -town,  which  were  now  worth  thrice  apiece  what 
he  had  paid  for  them.  His  four  fine  taverns  brought 
him  in  superb  profits  on  the  hogsheads  of  inferior 
whisky  that  he  sold  there,  and  would  have  paid  him 
far  better  if  he  could  only  have  got  honest  men  to 
tend  his  bars — a  Utopian  dream  of  which  his  own 
'prentice  past  must  have  shown  him  the  airy  texture. 
Two  or  three  somewhat  dramatic  meetings  had  oc- 
curred between  himself  and  Isaac  Trask  in  former, 
days.  Trask  had  spoken  his  mind  with  arraigning 
freedom  on  the  subject  of  frauds  and  steals  in  muni- 
cipal doings.  Heffernan,  never  a  genial  person,  had 
each  time  looked  sourer  things  than  he  said.  For 
perhaps  five  years  before  Trask  died  the  brothers-in- 
law  had  never  met.  But  meanwhile  Trask  had  all 
kinds  of  bitter  thoughts  to  think  if  so  disposed ;  for 
Heffernan,  buoyed  by  the  changeless  dominance  of 
his  party,  had  meanwhile  served  his  term  as  alder- 
man only  to  have  it  succeeded  by  the  honors  of  an 
appointment  as  Police  Commissioner.  Eunice  and 
her  sisters  breathed  in  the  aroma  of  their  father's 
dislike.  They  got  into  the  way  of  saying  "uncle 
Andrew"  with  the  tips  of  their  lips,  as  it  were,  and 
even  then  as  seldom  as  possible.  For  their  aunt  Eliza 


16  WOMEN  MUST  WEEP 


they  had  no  such  coldness  of  dealing ;  and  though 
their  father  would  allow  them  to  accept  no  gifts  from 
her  nor  to  visit  her  at  any  time,  Mrs.  Heffernan,  with 
unrepelled  hardihood,  crossed  their  threshold  two  or 
three  times  each  month. 

She  was  not  an  enlivening  woman ;  she  had  indeed 
often  struck  their  young  spirits  as  a  curious^  gloomy 
one.  But  her  frank  interest  in  their  welfare,  her  de- 
sire, tenacious  and  inalienable,  that  they  should  not 
be  made  to  forget  her  as  their  nearest  of  kin,  and  her 
constant  revealed  fondness  for  the  memory  of  their 
dead  mother,  wrought  amiably  with  them  and  bade 
them  welcome  her  comings. 

After  they  had  kissed  her  and  seated  themselves  be- 
side her,  she  stared  up  at  a  bad  picture  of  Mr.  Trask 
which  hung  over  the  fire-place,  there  in  the  back- 
parlor,  and  said,  with  her  nasal  and  slightly  whining 
tones,  the  tones  that  so  many  American  women  get 
to  use  as  they  age : 

"That's  just  him  through  the  world,  now,  isn't 
it?" 

•'  I  wish  we  had  a  better  one  of  him,"  said  Eunice. 

"We've  got  a  photograph,"  said  Annette,  in  her 
eager,  childlike  way.  "We  can  have  a  portrait 
painted  from  that.  Kitty  Brigg's  mother's  portrait 
was  painted  so  after  she  died,  and  Kitty  says  it 
scares  her  sometimes — it  almost  speaks." 

"  I  wish  we  could  get  one  that  would  speak,"  said 
Dora,  with  a  smile  that  swiftly  turned  into  a  sigh. 

"  We'll  have  to  wait  a  while,  I  guess,  before  we  find 
out  whether  we  can  afford  anything  like  an  oil- 
painting,"  said  Eunice,  with  a  glance  at  Mrs.  Heffer- 
nan, both  dubious  and  plaintive.  "Won't  we,  Aunt 
'Liza!"  she  appealed,  not  expecting  any  special  re- 


WOMEN  MUST  WEEP  17 

ply,  but  merely  meaning  a  general  reference  to  her 
father's  masterless  estate. 

"I'm  afraid  you  will,"  said  Mrs.  Heffernan.  With 
her  dull-blue  eyes  (that  always  seemed  to  express  a 
kindly  spirit,  though  never  quite  a  happy  one)  sweep- 
ing in  turn  each  face  of  the  auditors  near  her,  she  con- 
tinued :  "  Ain't  you  yet  had  anything  positive  about 
what  your  pa  left  ?  " 

"We've  heard  something,"  said  Eunice,  addressing 
her  aunt  and  not  responding  to  the  look  which  both 
Dora  and  Annette  somewhat  anxiously  fixed  on  her. 
"I  mean,  Aunt  'Liza,  through  Austin  Legree." 

"Oh,  he's  so  nice  and  kind!"  exclaimed  Annette, 
slapping  her  hands  together  in  a  little-girlish,  ap- 
plausive style. 

Mrs.  Heffernan  gave  a  long  nod  that  ended  in  sev- 
eral shorter  ones.  "  He's  the  young  man  your  father 
trusted  so,  ain't  he?  "  she  said, in  a  venturing  sort  of 
voice.  "  The  young  man  that  'tends  the  store?  " 

"Goodness,  he's  better  than  that,"  declared  Dora, 
a  trifle  tartly.  "  Pa  wanted  to  make  him  a  partner. 
He'd  have  been  one  in  a  few  months,  wouldn't  he, 
Eunice?" 

"  I  think  so,"  said  Eunice,  her  high  color  deepening 
a  little.  "Mr.  Legree  has  been  very  good  to  us," 
Aunt  'Liza.  He  was  pa's  right-hand  man,  you 
know." 

•'  Pa  thought  the  world  of  him,"  struck  in  Annette. 

"He's  told  us  there  wasn't  any  will,"  proceeded 
Eunice.  "He's  been  here  a  number  of  times  and 
given  us  comfort  by  letting  us  know  that  the  store 
was  going  on  just  the  same — for  the  present." 

"  For  the  present — yes,"  murmured  Mrs.  Heffernan ; 
and  as  she  spoke,  all  her  three  listeners  started,  lean- 


18  WOMEN  MUST  WEEP 

ing  their  heads  toward  her  in  earnest  heed.  "  But  it 
can't  last  like  that,"  she  continued,  with  a  fall  and  a 
quiver  oddly  mixed  in  her  speech.  "You  girls  don't 
understand,  of  course;  but  there's  things  to  be 
looked  after,  and  this  Mr.  Legree,  no  matter  how 
smart  he  is,  can't  arrange  'em.  He's  pretty  young, 
in  the  first  place,  and  in  the  second,  he  isn't  any  rela- 
tion to  you.  And  except  him,  your  pa  never  seemed 
to  have  any  near  friends  of  a  business  kind." 

"Pa  kept  himself  to  himself  a  good  deal,  in  a  busi- 
ness way,"  said  Eunice,  straightening  her  figure  a 
little  and  no  doubt  scenting,  much  more  keenly  than 
did  her  sisters,  the  drift  of  coming  words. 

"Oh,  I  know  that,"  said  Mrs.  Heffernan.  There 
was  a  pause,  and  her  mild,  blonde,  half-worried  face 
transiently  drooped.  Bridling  \vith  a  sudden  nerv- 
ous and  even  querulous  effect,  she  proceeded:  "The 
fact  is,  my  dears,  I  don't  believe  anybody  can  look 
after  you,  just  now,  as  well  as  your  Uncle  Andrew." 

"Uncle  Andrew!"  faltered  Eunice.  "Why,  Aunt 
'Liza,  you  know  that  pa " 

"Never  mind,"  said  Mrs.  Heffernan,  catching  Eu- 
nice by  the  wrist  and  peering  into  her  dismayed  face. 
"He's  coming  here.  He's  been  talking  with  your  pa's 
young  chum.  He  may  be  here  any  minute.  He  can 
tell  you  how  you  stand  a  good  deal  better  than  any- 
body else.  He  knows  about  all  these  things.  It 
ain't  only  what  he  may  or  may  not  'a  found 
out  at  the  store  to-day.  He's  made  enquiries.  He 
wants  to  treat  you  all  three  nice  and  good.  Never 
mind  if  your  pa  and  him  wasn't  on  the  best  of 
terms."  Here  Mrs.  Heffernan  rose,  and  her  large 
body  trembled  a  little  with  plain  agitation  as  she  did 
so.  "You'll  trust  your  Aunt  'Liza,  I  hope.  You 


WOMEN  MUST  WEEP  19 

won't  go  back  on  her  now,  when  she's  come  here  to 
befriend  you.  The  Lord  knows  you  need  somebody. 
Things  look  bad— mighty  bad.  Your  Uncle  Andrew 
might  have  turned  his  back  on  the  whole  muddle." 

"Muddle!"  bristled  Dora,  finding  her  feet  with  a 
frown.  Just  then  the  hall-bell  rang  again. 

Eunice  rose  now,  and  Annette  did  the  same. 

"We've  got  those  two  houses,  Aunt  Liza,"  began 
Eunice. 

"Oh,  yes,  I  know,"  said  Mrs.  Heffernan,  with  sor- 
rowful shakes  of  the  head.  She  pointed  toward  the 
outer  hall.  "That 'shim now— I'll  betit  is.  Heprom- 
ised  me  he'd  come  soon.  It  isn't  that  he  bears  any 
grudge.  He  might,  but  he  doesn't.  It  is  him,"  she 
presently  asserted,  as  a  bass  male  voice  floated  in 
through  the  limited  space  of  the  almost  miniature 
interior.  The  next  instant  she  had  quickly  scanned 
each  of  the  three  faces  confronting  her,  and  had  read 
on  each  reluctance  and  alarm.  "He's  come  as  your 
friend — remember  that.  And  you  need  one,  children. 
Treat  him  fair,  now,  and  you'll  never  regret  it." 

The  girls  exchanged  flurried  looks.  This  occasion 
was  to  all  of  them  crucial.  For  years  they  had  been 
taught  to  hold  in  disesteem  this  rich  liquor-seller  who 
had  married  their  aunt.  That  he  should  come  to 
them  now  in  the  role  of  a  helper,  was  at  once  incred- 
ible and  repulsive.  A  little  while  later,  when  he 
entered  the  room,  they  stood  waiting  him  as  if  he 
had  been  a  sheriff  come  to  seize  their  chattels  with 
ruthless  clutch. 


II 

His  appearance  may  have  seemed  to  them  a  little 
ogreish,  but  his  demeanor  was  surely  the  reverse. 
They  saw  at  once  that  he  meant  only  to  be  suave 
and  kindly,  and  that  he  bore  no  signs  of  ill-will  for 
past  slights.  He  took  their  hands  in  his  own  im- 
mense one,  but  claimed  no  avuncular  kiss. 

"Your  aunt  thought  Ibetter  come," he  began,  "and 
tell  all  I  know  about  what  your  father's  left.  'Tain't 
very  much  that  I  do  know,  but  that  I'll  gladly  tell." 
Then,  with  his  brogue  and  his  guttural  gruffness,  he 
began  a  little  tale  of  how  he  had  gone  to  the  "store" 
a  day  or  two  since  and  got  the  head  clerk,  Austin 
Legree,  to  give  him  certain  points  about  his  dead 
employer's  wordly  goods.  These  tidings  he  had  made 
use  of  in  other  quarters,  and  was  now  prepared  to 
state  (though  of  course  roundly  alone)  the  worth  of 
Isaac  Trask's  possessions.  It  soon  dawned  upon 
Eunice  and  her  sisters  that  their  uncle  had  behaved 
toward  them  in  a  spirit  of  great  goodness;  forsurely, 
considering  their  father's  treatment  of  him  in  the 
past,  he  should  have  been  the  one  of  all  others  to 
refuse  them  the  least  aid. 

Eunice  could  not  resist  her  native  trend  to  praise 


WOMEN  MUST  WEEP  21 

where  she  thought  praise  was  due,  just  as  she  would 
have  spoken  her  mind  freely  if  blame  had  occurred  to 
her  as  the  proper  mode  of  viewing  her  kinsman's 
admitted  course. 

"You've  been  very  kind,  indeed,"  she  said,  with  a 
sparkle  of  feeling  in  her  brown  eyes.  And  then,  while 
her  face  fell  and  she  bit  her  lip  troubledly:  "But  all 
the  pains  you  took  haven't  brought  much  good  news 
to  us,  have  they?  We've  got  very  little  to  live  on, 
then,  with  those  two  mortgages  and  the  need  of  sell- 
ing out  the  business  at  the  store." 

Heffernan  scanned  the  carpet  and  moved  his  big 
hands  uneasily  on  his  gaunt  knees.  "There  won't  be 
much,  that's  true,"  he  muttered.  Then  he  lifted  his 
eyes  and  fixed  them  on  the  plump,  small,  faded  face 
of  his  wife.  "I've — I've  been  saying  to  your  aunt 
'Liza" — he  began.  But  here  Mrs.  Heifernan  caught 
the  words  from  his  mouth.  "Your uncle  Andy  wants 
to  take  care  of  things  for  you,  girls,  and  he'll  do  it 
splendid,  too,  if  you'll  only  let  him.  He  knows  so 
much  about  business..  He  might  add  a  little  for  the 
first  year  or  so,  to  what  he  pays  you  out,  and  then 
afterward,  when  things  got  fixed  and  running  reg- 
ular, he  might — that  is,  if  you  insisted,  he  might — let 
you  return  him  anything  he'd-a-'commodated  you 
with." 

"Oh,  no,  no,"  said  Eunice,  her  figure  stiffening  a 
little.  "We  wouldn't  like  to  borrow,  you  know." 
The  remembrance  of  her  father's  proud  antipathy 
had  shot  chillingly  through  her  mind.  It  was  almost 
enough  to  make  the  dead  turn  in  his  grave,  this  idea 
of  their  ever  being  dependent  on  the  man  "pa"  had 
despised. 

Heffernan  cleared  his  throat  and  rolled  his  dead- 


WOMEN  MUST  WEEP 


black  eyes  toward  his  wife.  The  glance  seemed  to 
say,  "There,  what  did  I  tell  you  ?  " 

Dora  now  broke  the  silence  with  a  cheery  jaunti- 
ness.  "Oh,"  she  said,  "we'll  have  something;  after 
all.  And  we  can  take  in  a  few  boarders,  if  the  worst 
conies  to  the  worst.  The  house  isn't  too  small  for 
that,  I  guess.  We  could  all  go  into  one  room  and 
sleep  in  the  same  bed.  Only  I  shan't  be  in  the  middle 
if  we  do.  Eunice  must  go  there,  for  I've  slept  with 
Annette  before,  and  I  know  how  she  kicks." 

This  brought  the  relief  of  a  laugh,  in  which  Heffer- 
nan  was  the  heartiest  sharer.  He  looked  at  his  wife 
again,  and  she  nodded,  as  if  to  say,  "Didn't  I  tell  you 
what  a  joker  that  girl  was  ?  "  Then  aloud  Mrs.  Hef- 
fernan  exclaimed:  "You're  just  your  mother  over 
again,  Dora,  every  once  in  a  while !  " 

Their  uncle's  gravity  soon  returned  to  him.  "Well," 
he  said,  chiefly  addressing  Eunice,  "I  don't  want  to 
put  you  out  'o  sorts  any  more  than  you  are  as  it  is. 
I  can  only  tell  you,  though,  that  I  stand  ready  to  be 
of  help  if  you  need  me;  and  if  you  don't,  why,  there's 
no  bones  broken."  He  spoke  those  last  words  rather 
grimly,  but  with  an  air  of  much  patience;  and  then 
he  rose,  again  glancing  at  his  wife  as  though  to  query 
of  her,  "Haven't  I  done  my  best,  and  is  there  any- 
thing more  I  could  say  or  do  ?  " 

"We're  very  thankful  to  you,"  murmured  Eunice, 
quitting  her  chair  with  a  dashed,  apologetic  start. 
"But  I — I  guess  pa  would  have  liked  it  better  if  we'd 
tried  to  get  on  with  just  what  he's  left  us  and  no 
more." 

"Oh,  I  understand, "  replied  Heffernan,  yet  not  with 
the  faintest  cynic  ring  in  his  tones.  "I  respected  your 
father  and  admired  him,"  he  added,  after  a  slight 


WOMEN  MUST  WEEP  23 

pause.  "If  he  didn't  think  the  same  'o  me,  I  shan't 
make  that  a  reason  for  not  recollecting  I  married 
your  aunt."  He  took  from  his  waistcoat  pocket  a 
big,  costly -looking  gold  watch  and  consulted  it.  "I 
guess  Mr.  Legree  '11  be  dropping  in  pretty  soon,  and 
if  he  does  he'll  make  a  proposal  about  the  store. 
He's  got  some  plan  in  his  head  about  buying  out  the 
business  himself." 

Dora  gave  a  short,  brisk  titter.  "Austin  Legree! 
Buy  us  out!  Well,  I  never!  I  didn't  know  he  had 
a  cent  to  his  nam»." 

"He  talks  as  if  he  might  raise  a  few,"  said  Hef- 
fernan.  "Wait  a  bit  till  you  hear  what  he's  up  to 
and  how  he  wants  to  get  at  it." 

Leaving  his  nieces,  that  afternoon,  Andrew  Hef- 
fernan  felt  stung  to  the  quick.  You  could  not 
have  told  his  chagrin  from  his  face ;  that  staid,  as 
always,  haggard  and  sunken-cheeked,  with  its  black 
eyes  caverned  under  shaggy  brows.  He  had  a  big, 
bony  frame,  and  his  awkwardness  made  it  seem 
uncouther  and  more  angular  still.  When  Eliza 
Bassett  married  him  he  had  not  been  so  ill-favored 
as  now.  That  pallor  of  his  had  not  the  same 
chalky  gleam,  and  those  hollows  had  not  been^ 
scooped  above  the  jaws.  Those  who  knew  him 
best  said  that  he  was  a  far  happier  man  when  a 
poor  one.  Now  he  had  his  four  establishments  and 
his  money  in  bonds  and  real-estate,  in  mortgages  and 
bank-stock.  Thousands  envied  him,  and  he  knew  it. 
If  he  had  foreseen,  when  a  barefoot  lad  in  Ireland, 
that  such  riches  and  thrift  would  become  his  at 
some  future  time,  his  joy  would  almost  have  defied 
bounds.  But  to-day  you  would  have  decided  as 
you  looked  on  him  that  whatever  boons  luck  might 


24  WOMEN  MUST  WEEP 

have  borne  him,  happiness  was  by  no  means  on 
their  list. 

And  in  truth  he  was  very  far  from  happy.  He  had 
worked  hard,  at  first,  in  his  bad  trade,  and  had  nev- 
er dreamed  of  thinking  it  a  bad  one.  If  yon  had 
asked  him  why  he  did  not  think  it  vile,  since  it  fed  on 
the  vices  of  the  needy  and  took  bread  from  the  lips 
of  wives  and  children,  he  would  have  given  you  a 
score  of  reasons  to  prove  that  it  was  fair  and 
honest  as  any  other  traffic  between  man  and  man. 
But  in  a  slow,  erosive  way,  doubts  had  undermined 
his  belief  that  it  was  either  fitting  or  cleanly.  Con- 
science had  wakened  in  him,  as  though  from  a  life- 
long torpor ;  and  when  he  tried  to  review  his  recent 
past  and  find  the  precise  cause  for  this  or  that 
phase  of  change,  he  invariably  stopped  short  at  the 
inward  image  of  his  wife. 

She  did  not  accompany  him  from  the  Trasks'  to- 
day, and  he  visited  two  of  his  liquor-shops  before 
going  home.  She  met  him  almost  as  he  entered  the 
Second  Avenue  flat  which  for  several  years  the3r  had 
occupied.  This  was  on  the  ground-floor  of  a  large 
brown-stone  building  not  far  from  one  of  the  broader 
uptown  streets.  It  was  not  large,  but  it  seemed  so 
to  its  two  proprietors,  who  had  gone  into  it  after  a 
long  residence  in  much  meaner  quarters.  It  had  in- 
deed represented  luxury  to  both  of  them,  and  Heffer- 
nan's  growing  wealth  had  never  roused  in  him  a 
thought  of  any  statelier  abode.  If  his  wife  had  pro- 
posed one  he  might  have  readily  acquiesced ;  but  she 
pronounced  these  apartments  amply  commodious, 
meaning  to  her  also,  as  they  certainly  did,  an  ease  of 
living  that  eclipsed  any  she  had  known  in  former 
days. 


WOMEN  MUST  WEEP  25 

An  eye  with  the  least  sense  of  art  in  it  would  have 
found  them  unlovely  enough.  They  had  door  draper- 
ies, of  course  (what  portals  in  what  New  York  flat 
are  nowadays  without  them?),  but  these  were  of 
some  woolly,  flamboyant  stuff  that  hung  foldless  and 
hence  graceless.  The  other  decorations  were  cheap 
and  quite  shorn  of  taste ;  the  chairs  and  sofas  had 
that  machine-made  look  about  their  gilt-touched 
woodwork  which  one  sees  in  the  modern  furniture 
exposed  on  the  sidewalk  before  Sixth  or  Third  Ave- 
nue shops.  The  tidies  on  the  chairs  were  horrors  of 
brick-red  worsted,  and  from  the  wall  gleamed  two 
large  framed  photographs  of  the  presiding  lessees.  A 
steam  radiator  warmed  (and  generally  overheated) 
the  front-parlor,  as  the  sitting-room  was  called,  and 
ranged  about  the  unused-  hearth  were  three  or  four 
immense  conch-shells  whose  polished,  spotted  and 
leering  lips  would  have  glared  artificially  if  placed  at 
the  very  rim  of  ocean  itself. 

It  was  all  dreary  and  common,  and  the  incessant 
clamors  of  the  Elevated,  as  train  after  train  passed 
overhead,  certainly  did  not  help  to  endow  it  with  any 
semblance  of  domestic  peace.  Mrs.  Heffernan  was 
seated  by  one  of  the  windows  with  some  sewing,  as 
her  husband  appeared.  Her  work  was  the  making 
of  a  certain  white  undergarment,  which  habit  in  a 
great  degree  urged  her  needle  to  shape.  Reading  tired 
her,  and  years  of  poverty  had  long  ago  made  idleness 
irksome.  She  looked  up  on  hearing  and  seeing  the 
new-comer,  and  then  said,  still  stitching  away: 

"Well,  it  didn't  come  to  much,  after  all,  did  it?  " 

"No,"  was  the  gloomy  answer. 

"I  knew  the  girls  wouldn't,  Andrew.  It  was  just 
like  'em  to  refuse.  And  now  all  we  can  do  is  to  help 


26  WOMEN  MUST  WEEP 

'em  through  that  young  man.  What's  his  name  ?  " 

"Legree." 

"Oh,  yes — Austin  Degree;  so  it  is.  They  can1 1  live 
decent  on  what  '11  come  in  for  the  next  two  or  three 
years,  until  those  mortgages  are  paid  off,  and  if  he 
buys  out  the  drug-store  business  with  your  money 
and  don't  let  'em  get  the  least  notion  how  the  thing's 
been  fixed,  they  can  do  moderate  welL" 

Heffernan  threw  his  large  frame  into  an  easy-chair 
at  her  side.  He  began  slowly  to  pull  with  the  fingers 
of  one  hand  at  his  heavy,  black,  gray-streaked 
moustache. 

"I  guess  you're  right,"  he  said.  "But  I  don't  see 
why  I  should  take  all  these  pains,  'Liza,  for  girls  that 
think  me  the  dirt  under  their  feet — just  as  their  father 
did  before  'em." 

She  paid  no  notice  to  this  grumbling  plaint.  "Mr. 
Legree  was  a  good  deal  trusted  by  Isaac  Trask  for 
the  last  three  or  four  years.  I  know  that.  You  told 
me  yesterday  he  was  the  kind  of  young  man  you'd 
trust  y  ourself . "  "  M — yes . ' ' 

"He's  pretty  young,  ain'  he,  with  a  neat,  trim  look, 
and  nice,  bright  eyes,  and  not  a  sign  of  drink  or  late« 
hours  about  him?  I  remember  seeing  him  a  month 
or  so  ago,  at  the  door  of  the  store  as  I  was  passing, 
after  a  call  on  the  girls.  I  don't  doubt  it  was  him.  I 
says  to  myself  at  the  time  that  it  was.  And  I  re- 
member thinking  he  might  be  a  fairish  kind  of  match 
for  Eunice  if  her  pa  'd  take  him  into  the  business 
later  on." 

There  was  a  little  pause,  and  then  Heffernan 
gloomily  proceeded:  "All  I  do  is  done  on  your  ac- 
count. You'd  fuss  so  if  I  didn't  act  just  like  this." 


WOMEN  MUST  WEEP  27 

"Something  else  would  fuss,  Andrew,"  she  said, 
still  stitching. 

•'Something  else,  eh  ?  " 

"Your  conscience.  You  know  what  Isaac  Trask 
was.  If  he  gave  you  the  cold  shoulder  'twas  because 
he  was  dead  against  the  way  you've  got  up  in  the 
world." 

A  muffled  oath  left  Heffernan,  and  he  shifted  in  his 
chair.  If  any  one  but  "  'Liza"  had  dared  to  speak  to 
him  like  this  the  oath  might  have  been  a  great  deal 
louder  and  hot  words  have  followed  it, — though, 
after  all  was  said,  he  had  an  excellent  temper. 

"He  was  down  on  my  politics,"  the  man  sullenly 
said.  "If  they'd  been  the  same  as  his,  he'd  have 
treated  me  nicer." 

"I  ain't  thinking  of  politics,  Andrew.  I  don't  know 
anything  about  'em ;  I  never  could  remember  which 
party  was  which,  or  who  was  voting  for  who,  though 
I  can't  help  but  say  it's  always  seemed  as  plain  to 
me  as  the  nose  on  your  face  that  the  side  you've 
taken 's  got  pretty  dirty  skirts.  Now  you  needn't 
scowl,  for  all  I  do  know  has  come  from  your  own 
lips.  It's  you  that's  let  on  to  me  how  the  Boss  gives 
orders  and  the  dealers  like  yourself  get  just  so  many 
five-dollar  bills  at  election-times  to  pay  out  where  the 
voting's  doubtful."  • 

Heffernan  smiled  and  frowned  together,  the  effect 
being  somewhat  mirthless.  "Look  here,  'Liza,"  he 
said,  "politics  is  a  game,  and  it  ain't  a  game  for 
women  to  play.' ' 

"Oh,  I  don't  want  to  play  it,"  she  replied,  as  she 
dropped  her  sewing  and  fixed  on  him  those  dim-blue 
eyes  that  once,  when  brighter,  had  been  to  him  stars 
of  promise,  and  were  now  still  a  potency  with  him 


28  WOMEN  MUST  WEEP 

of  suasion  and  guidance.  "As  I  told  you,  I  wasn't 
thinking  of  politics  at  all.  I  meant  the  liquor  busi- 
ness, and  I  guess  Isaac  Trask  chiefly  meant  that, 
too."  Here  she  lifted  her  head  so  that  its  thrown- 
back  face  looked  almost  piteously  small  in  contrast 
with  her  fleshful  bosom.  "Oh,  Andy;"  she  said,  and 
her  voice  fell  with  a  forlorn  plaintiveness,  "it's  killing 
you!"  He  got  up  from  his  chair  with  both  hands 
stuffed  deep  into  the  pockets  of  his  trousers  and  head 
low-drooped.  "Well,"  he  growled,  walking  away 
from  her,  "/e£  it  kill  me ! " 

She  sprang  erect,  watching  him  keenly  for  an  in- 
stant. Then  she  went  straight  to  his  side  and  laid  a 
hand  on  one  of  his  shoulders. 

"Andrew,"  she  began,  "you  could  get  out  of  it  by 
another  way  than  that. ' '  He  stood  quite  still  and  lis- 
tened to  her.  He  was  not  a  man  given  to  fits  of  ire  when 
crossed,  and  yet,  though  often  cloudily  jocose  or  af- 
fable with  those  among  whom  the  world  threw  him, 
apt  to  play  the  raw  rowdy  if  his  self-love  were  hurt. 
Still,  to  her  he  had  always  been  tolerant,  and  only 
at  fleeting  intervals  irascible.  Her  consent  to  marry 
him,  years  ago,  had  been  a  vast  condescension  in  his 
eyes.  He  had  never  quite  recovered  from  the  honor 
she  had  paid  him  in  consenting  to  that  runaway 
alliance.  Her  house,  her  kindred,  had  always  been 
more  or  less  sacred  to  him,  from  then  till  now.  She 
was  above  him  at  that  time,  and  she  had  remained 
above  him  ever  since.  His  devotion  to  her  had  not 
waned ;  he  was  really,  with  all  his  faults  in  other  re- 
spects, a  model  husband.  Now  and  then  he  drank 
more  than  his  extraordinary  powers  could  stand, 
but  when  this  occurred  he  always  craved  her  pardon, 
if  she  had  observed  the  lapse,  with  a  humility  that 


WOMEN  MUST  WEEP  29 

was  roughly  chivalrous.  Her  loathing  of  his  em- 
ployment as  a  liquor-seller  had  not  sprung  from  any 
wifely  disgust  at  his  excesses.  These  were  so  rare  and 
so  brief  that  they  scarcely  dealt  her  a  sting.  She  had 
grown  to  abominate  his  calling  for  reasons  that  rose 
from  a  natural  moral  revolt.  Who  can  explain  the 
origin  of  these  human  distates  in  all  of  us  ?  Heredity 
may  be  their  father,  but  he  is  often,  in  the  immense 
complicated  line  of  every  individual  ancestry,  a  shad- 
owy enough  progenitor  to  resemble  the  genii  of 
romantic  legend.  Eliza  was  nowadays  often  laughed 
at  by  her  neighbors  and  friends  as  a  '  'prohibitionist 
crank."  Prohibitionist,  in  a  certain  sense,  she  un- 
doubtedly was.  It  had  come  across  her,  a  few  years 
ago,  that  to  live  by  the  sale  of  liquor,  to  accumulate 
gain  by  this  means,  was  a  ghastly  sin.  Her  conviction 
had  at  first  failed  to  sway  her  husband.  He  had  been 
born  a  Catholic,  but  the  religious  impulse  had  slum- 
bered latent  in  him  for  a  long  time  after  quitting  the 
compulsory  church-goings  of  his  earlier  Irish  days. 
Then,  at  a  later  period,  it  had  awakened,  and  though 
his  wife  was  of  wholly  differing  faith,  her  fierce  abom- 
ination may  perhaps  have  kindled  and  nurtured  the 
fires  of  his  own.  She  had  never  sought  to  interfere 
with  his  beliefs;  hers  were  not  hardy  enough  for  that, 
though  they  kept  divergent  from  his.  But  his,  on  the 
other  hand,  reawakened  and  strengthened  under  the 
stress  of  these  new  conscience-qualms.  Our  intellects 
need  a  good  distancing  of  ignorance  to  equip  them 
for  being  virtuous  without  religious  aid,  and  Heffer- 
nan  was  quite  of  the  unlettered  throng  who  reach 
right  only  by  the  process  of  stripping  from  it  eccle- 
siastic enwrap ments,  like  the  husks  and  silks  that 
cling  round  a  prized  ear  of  maize.  And  yet,  with  a 


30  WOMEN  MUST  WEEP 


novel  idea  of  guilt  weighing  on  him  and  paining  him, 
he  stood  appalled  before  the  requirements  of  his 
church.  But  these,  as  he  soon  learned,  were  require- 
ments that  waived  his  own  burning  sense  of  sin.  It 
soon  became  plain  to  him  that  he  could  "repent"  in 
the  most  approved  manner  and  yet  continue  to  dole 
out  his  fiery  fluid  for  any  chalk-cheeked  starveling 
who  laid  on  bis  counter  a  dime  in  exchange  for  a  glass 
of  it.  Perhaps  compunction  might  have  been  blurred 
in  him  by  this  recognition  of  easy  priestly  clemency, 
had  not  the  voice  of  his  wife,  mocking  yet  melan- 
choly, struck  discord  through  the  primal  coverts  of 
compromise.  It  was  she  who  told  him,  in  so  many 
words,  to  heed  the  warnings  of  his  own  spirit  and 
not  concern  himself  with  professional  monitors. 
These  might  rate  it  within  the  lines  of  their  policy  to 
hold  him  blameless,  but  if  the  stain  were  on  each  coin 
he  earned,  whose1  eye  could  detect  it  quicker  than  his 
own? 

"Yes,"  she  now  repeated,  "you  could  get  out  of  it 
by  another  way  than  that.  You  could  quit  the  trade 
altogether.  If  you'd  only  do  it.  Andrew.  If  you 
only  would!" 

Frowning  blackly,  he  moved  away  from  her.  "How 
many  hundreds  'o  times  before  now,  '.Liza,"  he  pro- 
tested, "have  we  been  through  talks  like  these  you 
and  me? " 

'Ain't  you  got  money  enough?"  she  demanded, 
both  her  short,  plump  arms  outspread.  "Why,  la 
sakes  alive,  you've  got  too  much!  I  play  lady  as  far 
as  I  can,  and  that  means  only  keeping  one  girl,  doing 
all  my  own  bedroom  work  and  having  a  woman  in 
once  a  week  to  help  with  the  sweeping.  We  don't 
want  another  cent.  It  would  take  you  lots  of  time 


WOMEN  MUST  WEEP  31 

to  'tend  to  those  we've  got  already.  And  what's  it 
now?  Not  so  much  the  going  on  sprees,  for  I  know 
you're  steadier  that  way  than  almost  any  of  'em; 
but  it's  the  being  forced  to  tipple,  tipple  all  day  long 
with  Tom,  Dick  or  Harry,  just  for  custom's  sake. 
And  then  it's  the  devilish  night-hours  you  have  to 
keep,  tramping  from  one  of  your  stores  to  the  other, 
'fraid  to  offend  people  by  not  joining  'em  in  a  glass, 
and  what  with  that  and  the  counting  out  of  the 
money,  not  getting  to  your  bed  till  it's  often  day- 
break, or  after." 

She  may  have  said  all  this  to  him  many  times  be- 
fore, but  he  listened  to  her-  as  if  he  now  heard  it  for 
the  first  time.  Of  all  living  people  she  alone  could 
thus  address  him;  she  held  the  key  of  his  complaisance; 
she  often  fretted  him,  but  never  to  such  an  extent  that 
he  wished  to  reply  in  anything  like  brutal  terms. 
Their  union  had  been  childless,  and  it  was  not  demon- 
stratively loving;  but  for  him  as  for  her  it  had 
been  satisfying  as  no  other  mortal  could  have 
made  it. 

"Oh,  the  life's  a  hard  one,  I  grant  you  that,"  he 
said  grimly.  "But  it  can't  stop  yet,  'Liza — the  time 
ain't  come  for  it  to  stop." 

"Why  not?  Why  not?"  she  persisted,  her  voice 
rising  shrill  and  then  dying  into  reproachful  semitone. 
"I've  heard  you  say,  yourself,  ever  so  many  times, 
that  you  believed  money  that  comes  from  liquor- 
selling  has  a  curse  on  it." 

"Oh,  pshaw!  We  all  talk  rot  when  we're  nervous." 

"It  wasn't  rot  a  bit ;  it  was  gospel  truth.  There  is 
a  curse.  Look  at  most  of  your  old  friends  that  used 
to  keep  stores  like  yours.  They  made  money,  too, 
but  where  is  it— and  where  are  they?  Look  at  Hugh 


32  WOMEN  MUST  WEEP 


Driscoll,  with  his  handsome  face  and  his  splendid 
health." 

"Oh,  he  was  a  fool.  Drink  and  horseracing  ruined 
him." 

"So  they  did.  His  dollars  were  easy  earned  and 
easy  spent.  That's  the  way  with  'em  all.  Patrick 
McManus  owned  five  elegant  stores  in  this  town 
seven  years  ago.  What's  become  of  all  his  big  sav- 
ings ?  The  last  you  heard  of  him  he  was  'tending  bar 
at  'leven  dollars  a  week  down  in  Prince  street.  Oh, 
I  know  what  you'll  say  to  his  tumble — that  it  was 
Wall  street  and  drink  mixed  together.  But  the  money 
goes,  Andrew — that's  all  I  mean:  the  money  goes, 
every  time.  John  Fogarty  dropped  dead  in  a  minute 
behind  his  own  bar— the  finest  on  this  very  avenue, 
and  now  his  two  sons  are  both  in  the  gutter,  landed 
there  by  the  lucre  he  left  'em  .  .  And  I  could  name 
others;  I  could  name  Denis  Milligan;  I  could  name- 
but  no  matter.  I  tell  you,  Andy,  there  is  a  curse  on 
the  whole  nasty  trade.  I  ain't  superstitious,  but  who 
prospers  in  it  ?  Drink,  and  the  wear  and  tear  of  the 
nights,  and  the  worriment  of  having  their  bar-keepers 
knock  down  on  'em,  kills  three-quarters  before  their 
time.  And  the  rest " 

"Ah,  'Liza,  if  I  could  only  get  four  good  honest 
men  that  wouldn't  knock  down  on  me!  I'm  safe  other 
ways.  I've  got  two  decent  men  now.  I  believe  Jimmy, 
at  the  Eighth  avenue  store,  and  Bill,  at  the  First 
avenue  store,  ain't  robbed  me  of  a  nickel." 

"Not  yet.  But  they  will.  They're  both  new.  Give 
'em  time;  they'll  play  the  old  game  inside  the  next 
month  .  .  .  Oh,  Andy,  cut  loose!  It's  a  filthy  business, 
and  it's  wearing  you  out.  Stick  to  your  politics,  if 
you  please.  Lord  knows  they're  bad  enough,  but 


WOMEN  MUST  WEEP 


they're  better  than  being  head  of  a  firm  where  Satan 
himself  is  your  silent  partner! " 

Till  now  he  had  stood  with  face  half-averted  from 
her  own ;  but  as  she  ceased  this  time  he  turned  full 
upon  her,  and  she  read  in  his  features  an  unfamiliar 
look,  half  savagery  and  half  suffering. 

"See  here,  'Liza,"  he  cried,  "I  hate  it  all  more  than 
you  do,  but  there  I  am,  and  there  I've  got  to  stay. 
If  I  cut  loose  now,  I'd  set  a  whole  gang  dead  against 
me.  Politics!  Why,  as  though  they  didn't  chain  me 
to  the  trade  faster  than  if  I'd  never  touched  'em.  I'm 
pledged  to  run  my  stores  and  work  for  the  districts 
they're  in.  Did  you  s'pose  the  salary  I  get  and  the 
plums  that  go  with  it  came  for  no  value  received? 
The  men  that's  made  me  what  I  am  would  damn  me 
for  a  renegade  and  a  turncoat  if  I  went  back  on  'em 
now.  I'm  up  to  my  neck  in  debts,  obligations  to  'em. 
Did  you  think  city  patronage  such  as  I've  had  were 
thrown  to  anybody,  like  a  bone  to  a  dog  ?  I  tell  you, 
'Liza,  that  though  I've  laid  at  your  side  in  my  bed  'o 
nights  and  felt  the  cold  sweat  break  out  all  over  me 
with  dread  and  shame  to  be  the  widow's  enemy  and 
the  orphan's  persecutor,  I  know  myself,  there's  still 
such  a  grip  at  my  throat,  such  a  pair  o'  handcuffs 
round  my  wrists,  that  it  would  take  the  courage  of  a 
lion  to— to  shake  'em  off !  " 

His  voice  failed  him  here,  and  as  he  almost  fell  into 
a  chair  she  perceived  tremors  in  his  visage  and  frame 
that  affrighted  her  no  less  from  their  novelty  than 
their  force.  "I  ain't  got  that  courage,"  he  "went  on, 
staring  up  at  her  with  a  woful  dismalness.  "I  ain't 
got  it,  'Liza.  The  tide's  taken  me,  and  I  must  float 
out  with  it — God  knows  where ! " 

These  words  were  a  horrible  revelation  to  her,  and 
3 


34  WOMEN  MUST  WEEP 

chiefly  because  they  disclosed  tliat  he  was  more  tor- 
tured by  a  constant  goading  remorse  than  she  had 
yet  dreamed  of.  At  the  same  instant  she  realised 
with  a  fresh  keenness  that  her  own  convictions  had 
been  fatally  right,  and  that  the  curse  upon  the  gains 
he  had  gathered  from  across  his  drink-soiled  counters 
already  had  found  him  out,  since  it  thus  had  caught 
him  in  meshes  of  anguish. 

With  a  cry  she  flung  herself  on  her  knees  at  his  feet, 
and  catching  one  of  his  big,  coarse  hands  in  both  her 
own,  kissed  it,  half-strangled  by  her  gushing  tears. 


Ill 

Dora's  native  humor  burst  its  bounds  after  their 
aunt's  departure  had  followed  that  of  her  solemn 
lord. 

"  'Pon  my  word,"  she  exclaimed,  "I  began  to  think 
they  were  going  to  propose  they  should  open  a  new 
liquor-saloon  somewhere  and  get  us  three  to  run  it 
fpr  them." 

"Oh,  Dora!1'  frowned  Eunice. 

"I  think  they  are  both  so  very  kind,"  said  Annette. 

"Indeed  you're  right,"  declared  her  elder  sister.  "I 
was  perfectly  amazed  by  uncle  Andrew's  conduct. 
For,  girls,  when  we  think  how  pa  treated  him !  " 

"No  worse  than  he  deserved,"  said  Dora. 

"Don't  be  ungrateful,"  rebuked  Eunice. 

"The  way  he  acted  appeared  to  me  as  truly  Chris- 
tian," said  Annette. 

"So  it  was,"  Eunice  approved. 

"Oh,  he  certainly  has  put  himself  to  trouble  on  our 
account,"  conceded  Dora.  "But  then  "wasn't  it  aunt 
'Liza  who  made  him  ?  " 

"That's  nothing  to  us,"  objected  Eunice.  "There 
are  so  many  husbands  who  are  perfect  mules  when 
their  wives  ask  the  least  favor  of  them.  I  hope  /'// 


36  WOMEN  MUST  WEEP 

never  get  such  a  husband,"  she  added,  with  a  sudden 
dry  ness. 

"Oh,  Eunice,  "laughed  Dora,  "I  pity  him  if  you  do!" 

"I  wonder  if  Austin  Legree  will  come  soon,"  mur- 
mured Annette,  almost  as  if  to  herself. 

"Mercy  me,"  shot  Dora.  "What's  he  got  to  do 
with  Eunice's  future  husband  ?  " 

"Oh,  please  don't!"  cried  Eunice,  with  her  face 
on  fire. 

"Well,  I  declare!  "  announced  Dora,  while  her  blue 
eyes  took  cruel,  critical  twinkles.  "What's  the  color 
of  a  guilty  conscience,  Eunice?  Is  it  scarlet,  like  your 
cheeks?" 

Annette  came  to  the  rescue.  "Make  Dora  blush  a 
little  on  her  own  account,  Eunice.  Mention  what  she 
said  about  Mr.  Kinnicutt's  yellow  whiskers," 

"Who's  Mr.  Kinnicutt?  "  said  Dora,  trying  not  to 
look  conscious.  "Oh,  yes;  I  remember.  He's  the 
young  man  that  called  here  one  evening,  weeks  ago, 
with  Austin  Legree." 

At  this  same  moment,  but  a  little  distance  away, 
behind  the  counter  of  the  apothecary  shop  which  still 
bore  "Isaac  Trask"  over  its  doorway,  and  had  so 
borne  that  rather  dingy  gilt  name  for  many  past 
years,  Austin  Legree  and  the  Mr.  Kinnicutt  just 
named  were  talking  together. 

The  mild  winter  afternoon  was  waning  outside  in 
Greenwich  avenue,  above  whose  almost  ignobly  ugly 
lines  of  edifice  brooded  a  delicate  amethyst  sky  that 
wrought  telling  contrast  with  the  dark-streaked 
snow-piles  in  the  streets.  Between  these  mounds  of 
tainted  pallor  the  cobble-stones  of  the  thoroughfare 
itself  gleamed  in  puddles  of  unholy  slush.  But  the 
weather,  with  its  tender  tang  of  freshness  after  hours 


WOMEN  MUST  WEEP  37 

of  sunshine,  gave  to  even  this  graceless  domain  a 
charm  which  its  greater  privacy  made  impossible  in 
Sixth  avenue,  where  more  public  clamors  are  blent 
with  like  architectural  crimes. 

Austin  Legree  looked  as  if  the  bright  day  had  put 
some  glad  leaven  into  his  spirits.  But  then  his 
aquiline  face,  with  its  white  skin,  shining  eyes,  bud- 
ding moustache  and  clean-cut  jaws,  always  had  a 
vivid  freshness.  Through  nearly  all  his  youthful  life 
he  had  been  known  as  keen-witted,  ambitious,  capable, 
shrewd.  Born  of  very  poor  parents,  he  had  climbed 
high  and  swiftly  in  his  record  at  the  ward-school  to 
which  he  had  gone.  When  sixteen  he  was  classed 
with  many  boys  five  years  his  senior.  Longing  to 
enter  the  free  New  York  College,  orphanage  had  com- 
pelled him  to  forego  such  career.  A  taste  for  medicine 
had  drifted  him,  later,  into  the  employment  of  Isaac 
Trask,  by  whom  his  talents  and  his  mature  cool- 
headedness  had  been  valued  at  their  full  worth.  When 
the  sudden  death  of  Trask  occurred,  he  held  a  place 
of  trust  that  caused  surprise  in  none  who  knew  him. 
Tall  and  handsome,  prudent  and  painstaking,  self- 
disciplined  and  abstemious,  he  was  yet  full  of  a  brisk 
and  virile  courtesy  \vhose  commercial  weight  began 
soon  to  make  itself  plainly  felt.  His  dead  employer 
had  more  than  once  admitted  the  push  with  which 
his  unvarying  blandness  and  buoyancy  helped  along 
sales.  It  may  have  been  a  wholly  insincere  pose; 
there  were  times  when  Trask,  watchful  of  its  pro- 
cesses, inly  affirmed  it  to  be  as  artificial  as  floral 
traceries  on  iron.  But  a  metallic  polish  is  often  very 
alluring,  and  Austin  Legree's  hardness,  if  really  ex- 
istent, was  beyond  doubt  hidden  by  very  winsome 
concealments. 


38  WOMEN  MUST  WEEP 

If  any  one  knew  the  truth  about  his  character,  and 
had  had  the  chance  of  gauging  either  its  humanity 
or  selfishness,  that  observer  was  surely  the  young 
man  with  whom  he  now  conversed.  Harvey  Kin- 
nicutt  had  known  him  in  his  school  days,  and  had 
often  admired  those  placid  victories  of  scholarship 
which  had  made  him  the  pet  of  his  instructors.  Le- 
gree  had  envied  Kinnicutt  the  golden  opportunity  of 
going  through  that  very  academy  from  which  he 
himself  had  been  debarred  by  the  stern  ban  of  per- 
sonal want.  The  Kinnicutts  were  by  no  means  a 
race  of  plutocrats;  Harvey's  father  was  always 
keeping  an  oyster-saloon  on  some  portion  of  Sixth 
avenue,  and  never  occupying  the  same  quarters  much 
longer  than  a  year  at  a  time.  His  big  golden  sign  of 
"Kinnicutt"  would  fade  from  the  region  of  Jefferson 
Market  only  to  reappear  in  that  of  Central  Park. 
He  clung  to  this  particular  avenue  like  an  eruption ; 
when  driven  from  one  spot  he  would  break  forth  in 
another.  The  little  moss  gained  by  such  a  rolling 
stone  had  helped  to  soften  the  fate  of  Harvey,  who 
might  have  been  put  behind  an  oyster-counter  at 
fifteen  instead  of  going  a  year  or  two  later  to  the 
turreted  red  bjick  institute  in  Lexington  a  venue.  But 
the  result  of  his  education  had  proved  bitter  shame 
of  his  father's  business.  Harvey  loathed  the  very 
smell  of  an  oyster,  and  when  any  one  asked  him  if  he 
were  related  to  the  Kinnicutt  who  dealt  in  that  kind 
of  shell-fish,  he  would  crimson  to  the  eyes. 

Genial  eyes  they  were,  and  the  yellow  whiskers 
which  Annette  Trask  affirmed  that  her  sister  had  ad- 
mired were  curly  and  grew  with  fringy  prettiness 
along  either  side  of  a  rather  comely  face.  It  was  not 
a  face  with  the  least  strength  in  line  or  moulding,  but 


WOMEN  MUST  WEEP  39 

it  was  no  less  winsome  for  certain  hints  of  fallibility, 
even  feebleness  of  character,  than  that  of  Austin  Le- 
gree  for  an  almost  radiant  self-security  and  mental 
hardihood. 

Harvey  Kinnicutt,  on  leaving  the  free  college  at 
which  he  had  won  no  signal  honors,  became  possessed 
with  the  idea  of  going  into  journalism,  partly  because 
it  was  a  calling  about  as  remote  from  oysterdom  as 
any  other  which  he  could  choose,  and  partly  because 
he  was  dowered  with  a  glibness  in  the  use  of  his  pen 
which  he  sometimes  thought  might  land  him  among 
the  newspaper  potentates.  Nevertheless,  he  was  ex- 
tremely modest  in  the  main,  and  after  having  striven 
for  a  considerable  period  as  the  reporter  of  a  paper 
in  good  repute,  he  had  begun  to  realize  his  own  defi- 
ciencies acutely  and  with  a  mild  regret.  His  nature 
had  no  intensities,  except  perhaps  its  loathing  of  the 
oyster-trade.  He  would  have  served  his  vocation 
better  if  he  had  been  more  in  earnest  about  life.  But 
he  was  very  much  in  earnest  about  any  young  fem- 
inine face  that  happened  to  engage  him,  and  it  began 
to  strike  his  friend  that  such  captivations  increased 
with  alarming  speed.  Latterly  he  had  felt  the  weak- 
ness of  his  powers  as  a  writer,  and  had  often  gone 
with  his  manuscript  to  the  drug-shop  in  Green vvich 
avenue  for  the  purpose  of  consulting  Legree,  with 
•whom  his  intimacy  (varied  by  only  occasional  breaks) 
had  continued  ever  since  their  school-days.  Legree, 
quick  as  a  flash  at  seeing  the  tameness  or  lameness  of 
certain  work,  would  suggest  here,  amend  there,  and' 
often  aptly  revise  everywhere.  On  this  particular 
afternoon  Kinnicutt  had  brought  him  a  manuscript 
on  whose  faults  and  needs  he  had  passed  rapid  and 
possibly  shrewd  judgment.  But  they  were  not  dis- 


40  WOMEN  MUST  WEEP 

cussing  this  question  any  longer.  For  some  reason 
there  had  been  a  lull  in  the  usual  flow  of  custom,  and 
while  a  second  clerk  attended  to  the  wants  of  unim- 
portant purchasers,  Legree  had  time  to  touch  upon 
his  own  very  unsettled  affairs. 

"Oh,  yes, "he  was  saying  in  his  crisp  American  style, 
"I'm  sure  Heffernan  will  advance  the  money.  But 
remember,  Harvey,  it's  a  dead  secret  between  you 
and  I." 

"You  bet  it  is,  Austin.    Trust  me." 

"I  will.  Now  see:"  and  Legree's  brilliant  eye  lit, 
for  an  instant,  with  diamond  sheen.  "Say  I  get  the 
store,  just  as  it  is,  with  this  debt  on  it.  I  can  run 
trade  here  in  a  smarter  way  than  Trask  did.  I  know 
some  dodges  and  tricks— rot,  if  you  choose,  but  rot 
that  takes  and  tells  with  the  big  herd— and  I  can  put 
my  patent  rheumatism  medicine  on  the  market  at 
the  same  time.  I'm  going  to  call  my  medicine  Opa- 
line Ointment;-  it'll  be  a  kind  of  pinkish  white,  and  I 
guess  the  name  will  catch  on.  People  are  such  fools, 
you  know,  that  a  kind  of  a  flowery  name  like  that 
fetches  'enii  And  the  stuffs  a  real  daisy,  Harv.;  I've 
been  working  at  it  six  months." 

"I  guess  it  must  be  splendid,"  said  Kinnicutt  loy- 
ally. "You  do  know  such  a  lot  about  drugs.  What 
a  pity  you  couldn't  have  been  a  doctor !  " 

"If  I  can  get  the  oil  well  started  it'll  bring  me  in 
more  cash  than  if  I  was  tramping  around  town  with 
a  satchel,"  asserted  Legree.  "You  just  wait.  So 
much  depends  on  how  a  new  medicine  is  started." 

"Yes,  I  know.  You  must  gull  folks  with  travelling 
agents  and  big  posters,  and  all  that.  Oh,  you  can 
do  it." 

"I  don't  want  to  gull  folks,"  said  Legree  coldly. 


WOMEN  MUST  WEEP  41 

"But  you've  got  to  fetch  'em  to  a  thing,  nowadays, 
or  they'd  fight  shy  of  it  if  it  was  the  genuine  balm  of 
Gilead,  bottled  and  corked  by  the  angel  Gabriel 
himself.' 

"Right  you  are,  every  time,"  acceded  Kinnicutt. 
"But  look  here  .  .  that  debt  you  just  spoke  of.  How'll 
you  manage  to  \vork  that  off?  " 

Legree  drooped  his  head  a  little  and  passed  one 
hand  over  the  glossy  dark  curls  that  clad  his  small, 
shapely  head.  "The  Heffernan  money,  eh  ?  " 

"Yes.    I  mean  that." 

"M— yes.  Of  course."  Legree  squared  himself  a 
little,  and  put  both  hands  behind  his  back.  Then, 
lowering  his  voice,  and  staring  straight  into  his  com- 
panion's amiable,  pink- tinted  face,  he  proceeded:  "You 
can  keep  a  secret,  Harv.  Look  here:  I  can  take  all 
the  time  I  want,  there.  I'm  going  to  have  that  old 
rum-seller  treat  me  fine." 

Kinnicutt  smiled,  showing  his  nice,  bright  teeth. 
"Come,  now;  ain't  you  a  little  too  sure  he  will?" 

"Not  a  bit  of  it,"  was  the  reply,  teeming  with 
doughtiest  confidence.  "I'm  going  to  marry  one  of 
his  nieces." 

Kinnicutt  gave  a  great  start.  "Which,"  he  queried, 
quite  sharply. 

"Talk  lower,  please.  That  Cody  is  stupid  but  he 
ain't  deaf .  .  Oh,  not  the  one  you  like." 

"The eldest,  then?" 

"Yes — Eunice." 

"Has  she ?" 

"Oh,  no,  not  yet.  But  she  will  have  me.  I'll  fix 
that." 

A  little  pause  followed,  during  which  Kinnicutt 
gave  a  soft  giggle  while  his  friend  called  out  some  bit 


42  WOMEN  MUST  WEEP 

of  information  regarding  tooth-brushes  to  his  lank 
and  horse-faced  fellow-clerk,  Cody,  who  was  serving 
a  customer  on  the  other  side  of  the  shop. 

Presently  Legree,  with  a  hand"  on  his  friend's 
shoulder  and  a  voice  all  prudent  undertone,  went 
fluently  on. 

"Yes,  I'll  fix  that.  I'll  get  Eunice.  I'll  have  her 
and  the  business  both.  She's  a  nice,  steady  girl,  just 
my  sort,  and  she  ain't  so  wonderful  poor,  neither.  I 
guess  I  couldn't  do  better.  Trask  left  those  three 
girls  a  very  decent  pile  between  'em."  He  removed 
his  hand  from  Kinnicutt's  shoulder,  and  while  putting 
both  that  and  its  mate  into  his  trousers'  pockets, 
drew  back  a  little.  "Don't  you  forget  that,  old  boy. 
Look  here  .  .  why  don't  you  go  in  for  Dora?  " 

Kinnicutt,asweknow,had  a  way  of  blushing.  "Oh, 
Lord!"  he  said.  "She  wouldn't  have  me — a  poor 
newspaper  reporter." 

Legree  tossed  his  head  and  pursed  his  lips.  "Try 
her.  I'd  like  some  fellows  for  brother-in-laws  a  dev- 
ilish sight  worse  than  I'd  like  you." 

Kinnicutt  burst  into  a  loud  laugh,  then.  "Why, 
Austin,  one  would  think  you  dead  sure  of  things,  the 
way  you  talk." 

"I  am,"  said  Legree,  down  in  his  throat,  as  it  were, 
with  a  rather  tightened  expression  about  his  thin 
lips.  "You  wait  and  see." 


IV 

As  it  turned  out,  Harvey  Kinnicutt  did  wait — and 
did  see.  His  waiting,  too,  lasted  but  a  brief  time. 
Within  a  fortnight  Isaac  Trask's  entire  business  had 
been  a.t  least  seemingly  bought  by  his  friend,  and  the 
three  heirs  had  signed  the  deed  of  transfer.  There  was 
an  actual  scintillance  about  Austin  Legree's  demeanor 
when  these  formalities  had  come  to  an  end.  Calling 
upon  Andrew  Heffernan,  he  thanked  that  gentleman 
with  so  hearty  a  vigor  and  bathed  his  doleful  pas- 
siveness  of  mien  in  so  rich  and  sparkling  a  cordiality 
that  the  liquor-dealer  after \vard  said  to  his  wife: 

"By  George,  'Liza,  I  guess  it's  years  since  I  met  a 
young  chap  so  full  o'  grit  and  go  as  that  Legree. 
Why,  he's  as  sprightly  as  a  colt,  with  a  head  as  level 
as  a  bull-terrier's.  If  one  of  the  Trask  girls  was  to 
get  him  she  might  do  a  heap  worse." 

"Do  you  think  so  ?  "  said  Eliza  Heffernan  musingly. 
"From  \vhat  I've  seen  of  him  (and  that  ain't  much, 
of  course)  he  kind  o'  'pears  to  me  ..." 

"Well?  "  said  her  husband  as  she  paused. 

"Oh,  I  don'  know.  Cold,  if  you  like,,or  .  .hard.  Yes, 
hard's  better.  But  I  dare  say  I'm  wrong,  Andy.  I 
get  notions."  Here  Mrs.  HeiFernan  began  to  stitch 


WOMEN  MUST  WEEP 


away  with  great  diligence  at  her  inveterate  sewing. 
She  never  sewed  at  anything  dainty  or  pretty;  it  was 
always  some  voluminous  white  fabric  that  had  to  be 
hemmed  or  felled  or  treated  with  rough  strokes  of  the 
needle,  and  with  coarse  thread  also.  Her  husband 
had  more  than  once  asked  her  where  these  "eternal 
underclothes"  went  that  she  was  always  constructing. 
She  would  never  give  him  an  answer  that  satisfied. 
"It  can't  be  my  shirts,"  he  would  say,  "for  I  only 
wear  three  a  week ;  and  it  can't  be  things  for  yourself. 
If  it  was,  you'd  have  enough  in  that  line,  by  this  time, 
to  last  if  you  lived  till  Judgment  day  ...  I  guess  it's 
charity,"  he  more  than  once  remarked ;  and  she  never 
replied  except  with  a  laugh  and  a  shrug  of  her  fleshful 
shotilders.  He  had  hence  concluded  that  it  was 
"charity,"  and  indeed  on  many  occasions  rightly. 
This  belief  fed,  if  possible,  deeper  inward  devotion  for 
her,  the  one  regnant  element  of  tenderness  and  gen- 
tleness in  his  world-worn  nature. 

"You  may  be  ever  so  right,"  she  now  went  on,  "but 
if  we'd  had  a  girl  I'd  somehow  been  afraid  of  Legree 
for  her  if  she'd  taken  a  shine  to  him." 

"Then  you'd  feel  scared  if  you  heard  he  was  going 
for  one  of  the  Trask  girls  ?  " 

"Oh,  I  can't  say  that!  Good  gracious,  marriage  is 
all  such  a  queer  kind  o'  risk.  And  we  women  have 
got  to  take  such  awful  risks,  Andy— ten  times  worse 
than  the  men  must." 

"You  took  a  big  risk  \vhen  you  married  me,  'Liza — 
and  got  left,  I  s'pose  you  mean,"  he  said  sadly. 

"No,  no,"  she  denied.  "I  ain't  casting  slurs.  I 
wouldn't  do  different  to-morrow  than  I  did  when  I 
slipped  off  with  you  that  day  from  pa's  in  Fourth 
street." 


WOMEN  MUST  WEEP  45 

"Oh,  you  wouldn't,"  he  muttered,  secretly  pleased, 
but  showing  it  only  by  a  downward  drag  of  his  bushy 
eyebrows. 

"No.  I'm  one  of  the  lucky  ones  among  women." 
She  then  frowned  a  little,  and  he  saw  half  the  frown, 
as  it  were,  in  her  profile,  watching  it  bent  above  her 
work.  "Of  course  there's  that  trouble  of  your  still 
staying  in  the  liquor — busi  ..." 

"Oh,  let  up  on  that,  please,"  he  grumbled;  and  her 
profile  at  once  brightened  again,  as  though  she  re- 
morsefully wished  to  repair  the  effect  of  her  late 
attempted  innuendo. 

"What  I  mean's  this,  Andy,"  she  continued:  "us 
women,  as  regards  marriage,  are  the  under-dogs  in 
the  fight.  I've  thought  it  all  over;  I  know  I'm  right 
about  it,  too.  There's  three  things  that  pester  and 
torment  us  when  we  get  to  be  wives.  Most  of  the 
men — I  won't  say  all  of  'em,  but  most — either  don't 
stay  true,  or  else  they  drink  more  or  less  bad,  or  else 
they're  regular  devils  in  their  own  homes.  Devils,  I 
mean,"  she  added,  "that  behave  like  angels  outside." 

Heffernan  gave  a  low  laugh.  "Adultery,  drunk- 
enness, and  general  cussedness, "  he  said,  as  if  speaking 
to  himself  and  thus  reviewing  the  verity  or  falsity  of 
her  bold  statement.  "Upon  my  word,  'Liza,  I  guess 
you're  right.  Yes,  I  guess  you  are  .  .  .  And  s'pose 
Austin  Legree  should  make  up  to  one  o'  the  Trask 
girls.  Which  o'  those  three  heads  would  you  say  he'd 
come  under,  eh  ?  " 

"Oh,  how  can  I  tell,"  she  answered.  "I  don't  be- 
lieve he'd  drink,  and  I  shouldn't  be  surprised  if  he 
kept  faithful  enough  to  any  wife  he'd  married ;  for  I 
shouldn't  think  he  had  heat  enough  in  his  blood  ever 
to  get  his  cool  brain  the  least  bid  fuddled.  But  as  for 


46  WOMEN  MUST  WEEP 

behaving  well — oh,  you  can't  prophesy  about  these 
things!  The  only  way  is  to  find  out  afterward.  And 
that's  the  sad  part  of  marriage,  Andy:  you've  got  to 
find  out  so  much  afterward." 

"You  mean  that  you  women  have  got  to,"  he 
laughed.  "But  how  about  us  men  ?  " 

"Sometimes  you  find  out  horrible  facts.  Oh,  I  grant 
that.  I'd  rather  deal  with  two  bad  married  men 
than  one  bad  married  woman,  any  day.  But  the  last 
are  more  scarce ;  I  stick  to  that." 

"Well,"  he  murmured,  after  a  pause,  in  dreary-toned 
rumination,  "I  guess  you've  hit  the  nail  just  about 
square  on_the  top,  'Liza  .  .  .  Yes,  I  guess  you  have." 


His  mind  once  made  up  with  respect  to  any  special 
plan,  Austin  Legree  was  not  the  person  to  procras- 
tinate. Their  bereavement  had  brought  them  so  much 
more  together  than  they  had  ever  heretofore  been, 
that  for  an  "evening  caller"  like  himself  the  girls 
appeared  almost  inseparable.  He  wanted  to  have  a 
peculiar  kind  of  talk  with  Eunice,  and  he  found  her 
almost  never  alone  for  five  minutes  at  a  time.  Dora 
or  Annette  would  be  sure  to  enter  just  as  he  was  on 
the  point  of  saying  what  he  desired  to  say;  indeed  he 
esteemed  himself  fortunate  if  neither  of  them  were  in 
the  room  \vhen  he  gave  Eunice  his  greeting,  whether 
by  day  or  night.  But  the  drug-shop  was  so  near  that 
comings  and  goings  with  respect  to  the  little  brick 
house  in  West  Eleventh  street  were  not  hard  to  ob- 
serve; and  one  afternoon,  when  he  had  seen  Dora 
and  Annette  pass  through  Greenwich  avenue  together, 


WOMEN  MUST  WEEP  47 

he  betook  himself  to  the  home  of  Eunice  with  distinct 
expectations  and  resolves. 

He  told  her,  almost  as  soon  as  they  were  seated 
side  by  side,  of  the  difficulty  which  he  met  in  securing 
her  unshared  company.  And  then,  with  a  supreme 
boldness,  he  pursued:  "I  don't  know  how  any  poor 
fellow  would  manage  if  he  should  want  to  play  sweet 
on  a  member  of  this  family.  It  looks  as  if  he'd  have 
to  do  all  his  talking  in  the  presence  of  witnesses." 

"I'm  afraid  he  would,"  said  Eunice,  with  a  prim, 
transient  smile. 

Legree's  nerves  were  very  calm  for  those  of  a  lover 
with  the  "now  or  never"  intention  firm  in  his  mind. 
He  did  not  have  to  steady  himself  at  all  as  he  here 
tenderly  said  : 

"Then  I  suppose  I'd  better  profit  by  the  occasion 
and  try  to  make  hay  while  the  sun  shines." 

"You!"  she  returned,  with  a  sudden  mettlesome 
air.  He  had  often  said  things  of  this  kind  to  her, 
though  none  as  yet  that  was  half  so  fraught  with 
meaning.  "Perhaps  you'd  better  make  sure  that  the 
sun  does  shine." 

"Oh,  I  can't  help  feeling  it  does  when  I  look  into 
those  dear  brown  eyes  of  yours. ' '  And  then  he  caught 
her  hand,  which  she  at  once  snatched  away. 

"Have  I  made  you  angry?"  he  asked. 

"Oh,  no." 

"If  I  have  I'll  never  forgive  myself." 

"But  you  haven't." 

"Still,  you  look  so  .  .  so  upset." 

She  laughed  very  nervously.    "I  guess  I  might  be!" 

"Why?"  he  urged,  leaning  so  near  to  her  that  she 
caught  the  pure  scent  of  his  healthy  young  breath, 
untainted  by  the  modern  and  ubiquitous  cigarette, 


48  WOMEN  MUST  WEEP 

or  yet  by  another  folly  more  baneful  still.  "Is  it  such 
a  big  surprise  to  find  out  I  love  you?" 

She  glanced  full  into  his  face,  but  drooped  her  eyes 
the  next  instant,  as  though  the  gleam  shed  by  his 
own  brilliant  ones  had  dazed  her. 

"I  .  .  I  didn't .  .  know  ..."  she  stammered. 

But  as  he  caught  her  in  his  arms,  now,  she  made 
no  second  sign  of  resistance,  "I  want  you  for  my 
wife,"  he  said,  with  the  closest  semblance  to  a  real 
burst  of  passion  that  he  had  possibly  ever  known — 
"for  my  sweet  treasure  of  a  wife,  through  lots  and 
lots  of  happy  to-morrows.  And  perhaps  if  you  don't 
care  so  very  much  for  me  now  you'll  get  to  care  more 
when  you  think  of  how  your  father  used  to  like  me, 
and  ...  " 

"But  I  do  care  for  you  now!"  she  broke  in,  and 
after  that  she  burst  into  tears  ...  A  little  later  Legree 
attempted  with  gentle  gallantry  to  dry  these  tears, 
using  a  slightly-starched  handkerchief  whose  rather 
impracticable  folds  he  managed  adroitly,  and  on 
whose  perfume  (as  the  finest  thing  in  essences  his  shop 
contained)  he  furtively  prided  himself. . .  .  That  even- 
ing Harvey  Kinnicutt  dropped  in  upon  him  and  the 
two  friends  had  a  talk  together. 

"You're  engaged,  then?"  said  Kinnicutt,  after  a 
good  deal  of  listening,  "There  isn't  any  doubt  about 
it,  Austin?" 

"Doubt?"  said  Austin,  with  one  of  his  cold,  gay 
little  laughs.  "No  more  than  the  break  of  day  to- 
morrow morning  .  .  .  Now,  see  here,  Harvey:  if  you'd 
like  to  be  my  brother-in-law  I'll  do  what  I  can.  The 
match  would  be  a  good  one  for  you.  Of  course  you'd 
have  to  play  your  points  in  a  smart  manner.  You 
can't  expect  Dora  Trask  to  throw  herself  at  you.'' 


WOMEN  MUST  WEEP  49 


"I  don't, "faltered  Kinnicutt.  "Good  Lord, Austin, 
why  should  I?" 

"And  you'd  like  to  pitch  right  in  and  get  her,  before 
any  other  fellow  has  a  chance?" 

Kinnicutt  recoiled  a  little,  coloring.  "By  Jove, 
Austin,  what  a  manager  you  are ! " 

"Manager?  ,  How  do  you  mean?  When  there's 
anything  to  be  done,  I  believe  in  just  going  to  work 
and  doing-it — settling  it  up,  that  is,  and  finishing  it." 

"Yes,  I  know,"  hesitated  his  friend.  "But  getting 
married  isn'  like  ..." 

"Any  other  piece  of  business?  Stuff!  Why  isn't  it? 
Of  course  it's  precisely  the  same  .  .  But  Harvey,  do 
you  really  want  the  girl  ?  There's  the  question.  Do 
you?" 

"Yes." 

"You'd  like  to  marry,  then,  and  .  .  er  .  .  give  up  all 
your  infernal  foolishness  ?  " 

"Foolishness?" 

"Oh,  you  know  what  I  mean, "  came  the  staccato 
tones  of  Legree,  rushing,  insistent,  and  yet  free  from 
all  touch  of  actual  warmth.  '  'You  must  quit  thinking 
about  every  new,  pretty  girl  you  meet.  There  must 
be  only  one  pretty  girl  for  you  in  the  whole  world. 
Understand  ?  And  her  name  must  be  Dora  Trask — 
or,  if  you  choose,  we'll  say  Dora  Kinnicutt." 

"I'd  like  to  .  .  to  be  able  to  say  it !  "  was  the  almost 
stammered  reply.  "And  I  think  she's  the  .  .  the 
sweetest,  nicest  girl  I  ever  saw.  If  she'd  marry  me, 
Austin,  I'd  feel  like  ..." 

"Supporting her,  eh?"  came  the  keen,  swift  inter- 
ruption. 

Richly  amiable  though  he  always  was,  Kinnicutt 
frowned  now,  as  at  a  brutality.  "Good  Heavens, 
i 


50  WOMEN  MUST  WEEP 

Austin!  As  if  I  wouldn't  work  my  head  off  to  sup- 
port such  a  wife  as  that !  " 

Legree  held  out  his  hand.  "That's  the  right  kind 
of  talk,"  he  said.  "Now  listen.  I'll  fix  it  for  you. 
I'll  fix  it  better  and  quicker  than  you  think.  When 
your  time  comes  for  proposing,  Harv.,  I'll  tell  you. 
Leave  this  thing  to  me.  You've  got  your  weekly 
salary,  and  she'll  have  her  share  of  the  family-money. 
Understand  ?  Now  just  you  wait .  .  .  By  the  bye,  it 
ain't  late.  I  can  leave  things  with  Cody  for  the  rest 
of  the  evening.  We'll  go  round  there  and  pay  a 
call." 

There  would  be  no  hyperbole  in  stating  that  Har- 
vey Kinnicutt  now  felt  himself  intoxicated  \vith  hope. 
He  had  already  seen  enough  of  Dora  to  admire  her 
very  much.  He  was  ambitious  regarding  the  question 
of  matrimony,  and  to  become  the  husband  of  a  girl 
who  might  have  a  few  thousands  at  her  control  and 
had  never  worked  for  her  living,  sharply  pleased  him. 
But  he  was  not  ambitious  after  the  fashion  of  Legree. 
He  loved  the  idea  of  social  advancement,  and  wanted 
to  rise  on  the  oyster-trade  as  one  may  rise  on  step- 
ping-stones of  his  dead  self.  But  what  appealed  to 
him  chiefly  was  feminine  beauty  or  charm.  He  dis- 
covered himself  no  more  in  love  with  Dora  Trask 
than  with  a  half-dozen  other  girls  whom  he  knew 
and  thought  fascinating.  His  nature  had  just  that 
fatal  receptive  shallowness:  it  could  image  within 
itself  the  attractions  of  a  great  many  more  Doras 
than  one,  yet  not  a  soul  of  them  made  much  deeper 
impression  upon  it  than  the  reflected  shape  will  pro- 
duce upon  a  mirror.  He  was  a  young  man  who  had 
not  yet  realized  the  full  powers  of  inconstancy  sleep- 
ing in  his  own  spirit.  Joined  to  a  native  weakness 


WOMEN  MUST  WEEP  51 

of  will,  this  temperament  of  his  was  replete  with 
malign  threat  against  the  peace  of  her  to  whom  he 
might  give  his  name.  Legree  may  have  so  prophesied 
in  thinking  of  his  friend's  future,  since  he  was  apt 
both  to  draw  judgments  regarding  those  whom  he 
knew  and  not  seldom  to  cast  their  horoscopes  besides. 

But  the  chances  are  that  he  had  foreseen  no  serious 
perils  ahead  for  the  woman  whom  Kinnicutt  might 
marry.  His  motive  in  wishing  such  a  union  brought 
about,  was  the  preference  that  both  of  Eunice's  sis- 
ters should  not  remain  unmarried  for  an  indefinite 
time  after  she  became  his  wife.  He  had  already  dis- 
tinct ideas  on  the  subject  of  how  his  household  affairs 
should  be  arranged  when  he  and  the  eldest  Miss  Trask 
were  one.  Certain  intentions  in  this  respect  might 
be  classed  as  even  now  labelled  and  pigeon-holed 
within  the  orderly  cabinet  of  his  intelligence. 

Meanwhile  a  flutter  in  a  dove-cote  would  be  quite 
too  mild  an  expression  for  the  perturbed  state  of  the 
little  West  Eleventh  street  house.  Eunice  could  not 
have  kept  her  betrothal  a  secret  from  her  sisters,  even 
if  the  mere  thought  of  doing  so  had  not  ranked  for 
her  among  criminal  impulses.  Her  face  and  eyes 
were  betrayal  in  themselves,  and  she  had  no  sooner 
begun  brokenly  with  ''Girls,  I've  had  a— a  visit  from 
somebody  since  you've  been  out,"  than  Dora,  giving 
her  a  look  of  poignant  suspicion,  cried  in  accusing 
tones : 

"You  mean  Austin  Legree,  and  I  shouldn't  be  a  bit 
surprised  if  he'd  said  something  awfully  queer  to 
you." 

As  it  soon  transpired,  he  had  said  something  even 
queerer  than  Dora's  quick  wit  surmised. 

"Well,  I'm  just  taken  right  oif  my  feet !  "  exclaimed 


52  WOMEN  MUST  WEEP 

Dora,  when  she  and  her  younger  sister  had  heard 
more,  "To  think  you've  actually  promised  to  get 
married !  Oh,  Eunice!  And  without  our  knowledge! 

"I  couldn't  help  it,"  said  Eunice,  as  though  she 
were  confessing  some  mighty  misdemeanor. 

By  this  time  Annette  had  begun  to  weep,  though 
quite  softly.  As  Dora's  droll  reproach  ended,  she 
hurried  to  Eunice  and  threw  both  arms  about  her 
neck.  "How  could  you  do  it  without  telling  us  you 
were  going  to  ?  "  Annette  wailed. 

Eunice  patted  the  speaker's  temple  with  one  hand, 
and  kissed  her  on  the  forehead.  "I — I  didn't  know 
it  would  happen  so  suddenly,"  she  made  trembling 
answer. 

Dora's  blonde  head  was  high  in  the  air,  and  her 
bloomy  lips  were  curling.  "Oh,  you  didn't!  But 
you  never  let  us  know  you  loved  him !  " 

"You .  .you  must  have  suspected,"  sighed  Eunice. 

A  certain  fall  in  her  voice  made  Dora  start  a  little. 
Her  haughtiness  wilted  in  an  instant.  Annette  was 
crying  on  Eunice's  shoulder,  now,  and  this  second 
sister  made  the  third  one's  grief  a  reason  for  drawing 
near  her  and  putting  an  arm  about  her  waist. 

Then  Eunice,  seeing  that  Dora  had  come  so  close  to 
her,  broke  forth  with  the  words:  "Oh,  Dora,  you're 
not  angry  at  me! "  .  .  And  soon  afterward  the  three 
were  clinging  together,  foolishly,  even  absurdly,  if 
we  will,  but  with  obedience  to  an  ardor  of  affection 
at  once  beautiful  and  sincere 

"You  say  he  wants  you  to  marry  him  pretty  soon?" 
Dora  observed,  after  a  while,  to  Eunice.  "But  I  hope, 
for  Heaven's  sake,  that  he  doesn't  want  to  take  you 
away!" 

"Take  her  away  !  "  burst  from  Annette.     "Take  her 


WOMEN  MUST  WEEP  53 

from  as/"  And  the  girl's  dark  eyes  moistened  again, 
while  her  under  lip  quivered. 

"Now,  look  here,  Annette,"  snapped  Dora  in  a 
scolding  tone  that  "wrought  no  more  offense  than  if 
it  had  been  the  scamper  of  a  mouse  across  the  carpet, 
"I  do  hope  we're  not  going  to  have  any  more  booh- 
hooing  from  you!  I  thought  we'd  all  decided  to 
brace  ourselves  up  and  not  behave  like  babies." 

''But  you're  not  going  to  leave  us,  are  you,  Eunice?" 
appealed  Annette. 

"Of course  not,"  Eunice  replied.  "We'll  live  here; 
why  shouldn't  we?  There's  room  enough."  Then 
something  made  her  shield  her  face  with  both  hands 
and  give  a  hysteric  little  laugh.  She  promptly  grew 
calmer,  however,  and  looked  at  Dora  with  a  pathetic 
touch  of  the  old  chiding,  superior,  elder-sisterly 
manner. 

"I  said,  six  months  ago,"  she  asserted,  "that  I 
liked  him— that  I  liked  him  very  much.11  Here  she 
glanced  at  Annette,  as  though  to  receive  some  cor- 
roborative sign  from  the  one  member  of  their  limited 
family  circle  whose  repute  for  truth  was  quite  untar- 
nished. "And  as  for  you,  Dora,"  she  went  on,  with 
solemnity  and  loftiness,  "I  don't  think  you'd  behave 
much  different  from  what  I  did  if  somebody  you  like 
should  speak  up  in  the  same  way.  I  don't  say  that 
a  certain  person  will,  either — that  is,  not  yet.  But 
\vhen  I  told  Austin  Legree  this  very  day  how  curious 
it  would  seem  for  me  to  get  married  first,  expecting 
as  I've  always  done  that  I'd  stay  the  old  maid  of  the 
family  and  you  and  Annette  would  each  have  me 
throw  an  old  shoe  after  your  wedding-carriages,  he 
laughed  and  said  that  he  guessed  a  certain  person 
might  care  to  follow  his  example  as  quick  as  wink  if 


54  WOMEN  MUST  WEEP 


he  only  got  pluck  enough  put  into  him  by  the  right 
word  from  you.  'And  in  that  case,'  said  Austin, 
'there  might  be  a  double  wedding  instead  of  a  single 
one'  .  .  Oh,  Dora,  if  it  should  happen !  It  would  be 
so  much  more  sociable  than  getting  married  all  alone, 
don't  you  know?" 

"I — I  simply  never!"  fumed  Dora.  "  You  can 't  mean 
anybody  but  that  Harvey  Kinnicutt !  And  I've  seen 
him  about  half-a-dozen  times  in  my  life !" 

"Oh,  he's  called  here  a  good  deal  oftener  than  that," 
contradicted  Annette,  with  juvenile  literalness.  "And 
then  he  took  you  to  Daly's  once,  and  once  to  the 
skating-rink.  And  he — But  oh,  Dora,  you  wouldn't 
go  and  be  married  too,  would  you?"  came  the  plead- 
ing self-interruption. 

"Catch  me!"  retorted  Dora,  in  great  scorn.  "One 
of  us  is  enough,  Annette,  for  the  next  ten  years  or  so, 
at  least." 

"Good!"  cried  Annette,  clapping  her  hands  in 
feverish  joy.  "That'll  make  me  an  old  maid,  and  it 
'11  make  you  a  very  old  woman,  won't  it?  And  all 
the  better,  Dora !  we'll  stick  together,  won't  we,  and 
not  let  anybody  come  and  separate  us!" 

"It  depends  on  who  comes  a-courting  us,"  said 
Dora,  with  a  shrug  of  her  shapely  shoulders  and  a 
pout  of  pique  on  her  rosy  mouth.  "They  must  be 
better  than  newspaper  reporters  with  fathers  that 
keep  oyster-saloons." 

'This  was  a  bitter  speech  for  Dora,  whose  humor 
seldom  had  an  acrid  tang  in  it  ...  But  that  evening, 
when  Legree  brought  Harvey  Kinnicutt  in  his  wake, 
she  gave  no  sign  of  having  judged  so  harshly  of  the 
young  reporter's  matrimonial  claims.  He  took  no 
risks  of  being  crushed  by  her,  however,  merely  pay- 


WOMEN  MUST  WEEP  55 

ing  his  homage  through  the  help  of  little  prismatic 
compliments.  Now  and  then  he  would  drop  a  hint 
that  evoked  from  her  a  slight  disdainful  stare ;  but 
for  the  most  part  their  converse  was  replete  with 
harmony. 

When  both  their  guests  had  gone,  Eunice,  with  her 
cheeks  burning,  as  certain  girls'  cheeks  will  burn  after 
their  lovers  have  left  them,  told  Dora  that  her  own 
sweetheart  had  very  stoutly  declared  Harvey  Kinni- 
cutt  to  be  as  much  in  love  as  he  was.  "  Austin  says 
he's  crazy  to  propose,"  proceeded  Eunice,  "but  he 
don't  think  you'd  look  at  him  in  that  way.  Still, 
he's  ever  so  gone  about  you.  He'd  write  his  finger- 
nails off  to  support  you  nice.  Some  people  say  he's 
so  smart  he'll  soon  get  a  place  with  a  regular  salary 
to  it;  and  if  he  does,  you  know,  Dora,  he  won't  be 
such  a  bad  match,  after  all." 

"M — no,"  said  Dora,  as  she  loosed  her  opulent 
blonde  hair  before  the  looking-glass,  and  began  to 
hold  tress  after  tress  of  it  with  the  ends  turned  up- 
ward so  that  she  could  thus  better  deal  them  little 
prodding  strokes  of  the  comb. 

"Besides,"  pursued  Eunice,  who  had  a  good  deal 
less  hair  and  somewhat  swiftly  had  done  it  up  into  a 
grim  little  ball  at  the  back  of  her  head,  "Austin  says 
we  ought  to  rent  this  house  for  a  pretty  decent  sum. 
And  if  we  did,  and  went  to  live  in  flats  (side  and  side 
by  one  another,  you  understand)  we  might 

"Oh,  for  goodness'  sake  don't!"  cried  Dora,  rush- 
ing up  to  her  and  putting  a  hand  over  her  mouth. 
"Because  you're  engaged  do  you  think  the  whole  o' 
the  rest  of  creation  has  got  to  be?  But  't  isn't  only 
that  you've  engaged  me  to  him ;  you've  located  me 
in  a  flat,  and  I  don't  doubt  you  could  tell  me  what's 


56  WOMEN  MUST  WEEP 

it's  street  and  number.  Next  thing  you'll  be  giving 
me  a  christening." 

"Oh!  DoraTrasi/" 

"  Or  a  funeral,  mebbe  .  .  .  Besides,  if  these  things 
should  happen,  and  we  lived  in  flats,  what  would 
become  of  Annette?  Or  perhaps  you're  going  to 
marry  her  oif  too." 

Annette  was  asleep  in  a  small  bed  not  far  from 
that  of  her  two  elder  sisters.  Formerly  her  bed  had 
been  elsewhere,  in  a  little  chamber  adjacent  to  this; 
but  when  death  had  so  abruptly  stalked  into  the 
house  he  had  made  the  sisters  huddle  together,  so  to 
speak,  in  blended  love  and  fright.  Annette  had  gone 
upstairs  this  evening  with  a  despairful  feeling  in  her 
heart ;  and  though  the  voices  of  her  sisters  did  not 
now  awaken  her  from  her  sound  young  sleep,  these 
and  the  dread  of  coming  household  changes  may 
possibly  have  caused  her  to  murmur  aloud  several  in- 
coherent things,  which  at  length  ended  in  the  clear- 
heard  sentence: 

"  Don't  let's  leave  one  another,  whatever  happens!" 

Eunice  and  Dora  exchanged  a  look,  and  then  the 
eyes  of  both  of  them  filled  with  tears. 

"She's  right,"  said  Eunice,  with  an  almost  rever- 
ent lowering  of  the  voice.  "Whatever  does  happen 
we  ought  to  try  very  hard,  all  three,  to  live  together." 

Dora  nodded.  She  was  thinking  whether  Eunice 
or  Legree  had  the  stronger  will,  and  that  if  by  any 
remote  chance  she  should  marry  Harvey  Kinnicutt, 
she  would  make  him  not  only  live  just  where  and 
how  she  pleased,  but  conform  to  all  sorts  of  domestic 
laws  in  a  spirit  of  devoutest  .obedience. 


A  few  days  later  Kinnicutt  boldly  spoke  his  mind, 
and  the  result  was  .betrothal.  Dora  had  liked  him 
for  many  past  months,  and  yet  a  kind  of  virginal 
revolt  in  her  had  wrought  the  eifect  of  reticence, 
denial  and  even  half-savage  indifference.  Kennicutt 
would  willingly  enough  have  waited  a  year,  two 
years,  before  the  wedding,  but  now  that  he  stood  in 
the  light  of  an  affianced  husband,  Austin  Legree 
made  his  own  will-power  dominantly  felt.  This  was 
not  done  with  any  tyrannic  display  of  suasion.  He 
merely  talked  in  his  nimble  and  secure  style,  showing 
the  subject  now  in  this  light  and  now  in  that,  as 
though  it  were  something  that  he  wanted  to  sell. 
His  idea,  his  plan,  was  that  Eunice  and  Dora  should 
both  be  married  some  time  in  the  coming  April,  and 
on  the  same  day.  Before  then  a  lessee  could  be  found 
for  the  house,  and  two  comfortable  suites  of  rooms 
engaged  in  one  of  the  apartment-houses  on  a  side 
street  off  Sixth  avenue,  possibly  in  the  near  neighbor- 
hood. He  consulted  Mr.  Heffernan,  and  brought 
back  word  that  this  arrangement  had  seemed  satis- 
factory to  the  girls'  kindly  if  self-appointed  guardian. 
When  Annette  looked  woe-begone  he  patted  her  on 


58  WOMEN  MUST  WEEP 

the  cheek  and  told  her  that  she  should  stay  half  the 
year  with  one  sister  and  half  with  the  other.  "  But 
I  want  to  stay  with  them  both  all  the  time,"  Annette 
would  make  demurrer,  \vhereat  he  would  smile  his 
hard,  bright  smile,  and  tell  her  that  she  would  soon 
have  a  husband  for  herself.  From  "Aunt  'Liza"  he 
wore  away  in  no  time  the  unfriendly  impression  that 
she  at  first  had  formed  of  him.  The  girls  had  another 
aunt,  an  only  sister  of  their  dead  father,  Mrs.  Giebel- 
house,  the  wife  of  a  well-to-do  German  florist.  They 
had  never  liked  this  lady,  always  from  children  regard- 
ing her  as  peevish  and  unsocial.  She  had  turned  up 
her  nose  at  the  engagement  of  Eunice,  and  plainly 
grumbled  at  that  of  Dora.  But  then  Aunt  Ida  was 
always  turning  up  her  nose  and  grumbling  at  every- 
thing arid  everybody,  or  so  the  two  elder  girls 
assured  their  lovers  when  she  treated  each  young 
man  with  her  frostiest  behavior.  Legree,  using  all 
his  most  complex  tact,  succeeded  ill,  for  a  good 
while,  in  making  her  unbend  to  him.  But  at  last  he 
did  succeed,  and  she  would  occasionally  drop  in  of 
an  evening  to  laugh  over  his  comic  imitations  of  cer- 
tain actors  at  Tony  Pastor's,  and  his  bewildering 
tricks  with  cards.  At  these  times  her  husband 
always  accompanied  her,  a  big,  handsome  Teuton, 
with  an  amber  beard  and  sluggish  blue  eyes.  He  had 
got  together  a  neat  sum  of  money  as  a  market- 
gardener  in  the  suburbs  when  she  married  him,  and 
why  he  had  ever  fallen  in  love  with  her  Ida  Trask's 
friends,  including  her  deceased  brother,  had  vainly 
marvelled.  Conrad  Giebelhouse  was  her  junior  by 
surely  five  years,  and  she  had  not  a  feature  of  the 
Trasks  in  her  thin,  soured  face,  with  its  high-cheek 
bones  and  its  puckered  chin.  She  had  a  spare,  grace- 


WOMEN  MUST  WEEP 


less  figure  and  a  constant  stoop.  She  was  fond  of 
wearing  a  skimpy  red-worsted  shawl  in  the  house  at 
almost  every  season  except  midsummer,  and  her  lips 
were  nearly  always  blue;  with  her  bony  shoulders 
gathered  together,  she  would  incessantly  seem  like  a 
person  on  the  verge  of  having  a  chill.  Oddly  enough, 
her  husband  had  been  in  love  with  her  during  his 
courtship,  and  was  now,  as  then,  her  devoted  slave. 
If  she  had  not  been  quite  a  dowerless  maiden,  ob- 
servers might  have  explained  the  ascendancy  won  by 
such  an  almost  arctic  personality  over  this  burly  and 
bearded  spouse  who  obeyed  her  slightest  nod.  As  it 
was,  he  thought  her,  in  all  the  pinched  and  wintry 
harshness  of  her  type,  a  creature  captivating  and 
beautiful.  So  also  did  he  think  their  only  child,  a 
little  girl  with  a  face  about  as  cheerful  as  a  nipped 
russet  pippin  and  a  temper  that  not  seldom  fumed 
itself  into  spasms  of  passion.  Socially  Mrs.  Giebel- 
house  bore  her  head  rather  high,  and  long  ago  had 
refused  to  exchange  visits  with  Mrs.  HefFernan,  whom 
she  held  to  have  made  an  odious  marriage.  When 
the  girls  told  her  of  how  kindly  the  husband  of  their 
Aunt  'Liza  had  behaved  to  them,  she  gave  a  cold 
little  cackle  of  a  laugh,  saying : 

"  Why,  mercy,  he's  got  heaps  and  heaps  of  money. 
He  can  well  afford  to  be  generous." 

"  It  wasn't  his  money  I  referred  to,"  said  Eunice,  a 
little  tartly.  "  He  gave  up  his  time,  and  all  that." 

"  His  time ! "  shuddered  Mrs.  Giebelhouse,  touching 
the  bluish-pink  end  of  her  nose  with  a  lace- trimmed 
handkerchief  that  she  had  got  as  a  great  bargain 
from  a  "marked  down" 'lot  at  Macy's.  "I  only 
wish  he'd  make  better  use  of  his  time  than  he  does 


60  WOMEN  MUST  WEEP 

do.  Goodness !  if  your  uncle  Conrad  was  what  he 
is,  I'd  just  lay  down  and  die!  " 

"Aunt  'Liza  does  a  good  deal  of  good  with  her 
share  of  the  money,"  boldly  said  Dora,  who  hated 
the  avarice  of  her  aunt  Ida  Giebelhouse,  and  liked 
now  and  then  to  deal  it  a  sarcastic  thrust.  "We 
never  knew  how  charitable  she  was  till  lately.  She 
goes  around  into  all  sorts  of  awful  places  and  helps 
people  with  money  and  victuals  and  clothes." 

"Well  she  may,"  said  Mrs.  Giebelhouse.  "Butshe'd 
have  a  lot  o'  work  if  she  tried  to  make  up  for  the  sins 
of  her  husband." 

Not  long  after  this,  Mrs.  Heifernan  appeared,  and 
the  two  ladies  gave  one  another  that  bloodless  kind 
of  greeting  which  always  passed  between  them  when- 
ever they  met  at  the  Trasks'.  Conversation  natu- 
rally turned  upon  the  double  engagement  of  Eunice 
and  Dora.  Mrs.  Giebelhouse  had  already  sniffed  with 
plain  contempt  at  the  prospects  of  either  would-be 
bridegroom,  and  in  a  pause  rather  embarrassing  to 
the  hostesses  of  these  two  antagonistic  aunts,  An- 
nette made  one  of  her  frank,  unwordly  remarks. 

"Well,"  she  said f  "I'm  glad  both  sisters  are  going 
to  marry  men  I  like.  I  don't  know  what  I  should 
have  done  if  I  hadn't  liked  them  for  brother-in-laws. 
Aunt  Ida  don't  appear  to  think  they'll  suit,  but  per- 
haps she  only  means  that  they're  not  rich  enough." 

Eunice  frowned  and  shook  her  head  at  the  speaker. 
"Annette,"  she  said,  "you  mustn't  put  words  into 
Aunt  Ida's  mouth  that  haven't  left  it." 

"Oh,  she  didn't  say  that,"  replied  Annette  rebel- 
liously,"  but  we  all  saw  what  she  meant." 

Mrs.  Giebelhouse  compressed  her  lips  in  away  that 
lent  new  height  to  her  cheek-bones.  "Don't  scold 


WOMEN  MUST  WEEP  61 

the  child  on  my  account,  Eunice,"  she  said  freezingly. 

"I'm  not  a  child,"  claimed  Annette,  in  affronted 
tones.  "I  guess  you  don't  remember  how  my  birth- 
days have  been  counting  up  lately." 

"That's  so,  I'm  afraid,"  Dora  here  struck  in,  with 
her  humor  taking  one  of  its  bitter  tinges.  "Young 
people  keep  'count  of  their  birthdays,  but  elderly  ones 
often  don't  notice  'em  because  they're  too  busy  for- 
getting their  own." 

Mrs.  Heffernan  laughed  very  amusedly  at  this.  She 
ceased  laughing,  and  then  suddenly  started  again. 
Meanwhile  Mrs.  Giebelhouse  looked  excessively  som- 
bre, though  she  soon  broke  another  awkward  silence 
thus: 

"Oh,  I'm  old  as  Methuselah,  girls,  if  you  please. 
But  age  ain't  our  worst  teacher  when  it  tells  us  the 
man  with  a  few  footy  dollars  to  his  name  makes  a 
dangerous  husband." 

"There's  husbands  with  thousands  o'  dollars  to 
their  names,"  said  Mrs.  Heffernan,  "that  often  have 
got  hearts  as  small  as  their  purses  are  big." 

"A  big  heart  and  a  bigpurse  ain't  al ways  enemies," 
replied  Mrs.  Giebelhouse.  I  didn't  find  it  so.  Not 
that  I  pretend  to  having  your  means,"  she  added, 
with  a  smile  like  lit  ice. 

Bristling  a  little,  Mrs.  Heffernan  said.  "I  married 
a  poor  man.  Did  you  ?  " 

"Oh,  no,"  was  the  reply.  "My  husband  had  made 
his  way  slow.  The  flower  business  ain't  so  quick  as 
the  liquor  business.  There's  so  many  folks  that  like 
a  cocktail  better  than  a  bokay." 

This  was  a  hard  blow  to  Mrs.  Heffernan,  and  Eu- 
nice exclaimed,  with  a  desire  of  dulling  it :  "Aunt'Liza 


62  WOMEN  MUST  WEEP 

believes  in  marrying  for  love,  and  so  do  I.     If  bad 
times  come  they've  got  to  be  borne." 

"And  bad  times  do  come  to  most  married  women, 
I  guess,"  said  Mrs.  Heffernan,  as  if  she  wanted  to 
show  her  unwotmded  state  by  merely  saying  some- 
thing in  the  air. 

"Bad  times  come  to  most  married  men,  I  think," 
declared  Mrs.  Giebelhouse.  "I  believe  agirl  ought  to 
marry  prudent,  in  the  first  place.  And  after  she's 
done  that  she  usually  gets  a  man  that  she  can  make 
what  she  pleases  of." 

"Do  you  make  of  your  husband  just  what  you're  a 
mind  to?"  asked  Mrs.  Heffernan,  not  with  satire  or 
even  a  hint  of  challenge,  but  simply  as  if  swayed  by 
motives  of  general  disinterested  query. 

"Why,  certainly  I  do,"  was  the  reply  of  the  florist's 
wife.  "My  husband  would  sooner  go  and  jump  off 
High  Bridge  this  minute  than  oppose  me  in  any- 
thing!" 

"Yours  is  a  pretty  rare  case,  then,  I  reckon,"  said 
Mrs.  Heffernan. 

"No,  it  ain't,  if  you'll  excuse  me,"  disclaimed  Mrs. 
Giebelhouse.  "It  ain't  half  so  rare  as  you  think. 
The  great  point  is,  a  "woman's  got  to  begin  right. 
Oh,  there's  so  much  in  that!  The  men  are  more  'n 
half  of  'em  ready  to  be  twirled  round  our  fingers." 

"It  needs  a  rather  strong  sort  o'  finger  sometimes," 
doubted  Mrs.  Heffernan  politely. 

"Oh,  I  admit  there's  reg'lar  devils/'answered  Mrs. 
Giebelhouse.  "But  I  ain't  talking  of  them.  I'm  talk- 
ing of  the  usual  decent  all-round  husbands.  Most  o' 
the  fights  and  rows  that  wind  up  in  divorces  are  the 
women's  fault,  not  the  men's.  You  needn't  tell  me. 
I've  seen  too  much  o'  the  weak  foolishness  and  ca- 


WOMEN  MUST  WEEP  63 


pers  and  deceits  of  my  own  sex.  What  men  \vant  is 
plain,  square  honesty,  joined  to  res'lution.  Nine- 
tenths  o'  the  men  will  give  in  if  they're  acted  proper 
to  and  not  dawdled  with." 

"Nine-tenths  o'  the  men,  /should  say,"  denied  Mrs. 
Heffernan,  "have  to  be  dawdled  with,  as  you  call  it, 
before  their  wives  can  make  'em  either  give  in  or 
behave  Christian." 

"That  ain't  been  my  experience,  Mrs.  Heffernan. 
But  of  course  there's  different  circles  of  s'ciety.  Some's 
high  and  some's  low,  and  the  space  bet-ween  'em's 
very  sizable." 

"I  s'pose  people  that  supply  flowers  to  receptions 
and  parties,"  Mrs.  Heffernan  said,  mindful  of  a  recent 
contrast  between  cocktails  and  bouquets,  "often  get 
a  kinder  peek-a-boo  glimpse  into  houses  \vhere  the 
big  folks  are." 

This  bit  of  irony  made  Mrs.  Giebelhouse  bridle  so 
angrily  that  its  perpetrator  felt  sorry  for  having  let 
it  escape  her.  She  had  a  heart  as  gentle  as  it  was 
latently  sad,  and  these  petty  battles  of  tongues  re- 
pelled her  by  their  triviality,  dwarfish  enough  beside 
the  mountainous  needs  and  griefs  of  a  world  that 
she  had  tried  (and  not  lukewarmly)  to  better. 

Mrs.  Giebelhouse  departed  in  a  little  while,  and  she 
remained  with  her  nieces,  talking  of  marriage  in  a 
more  hopeful  strain  because  conscience-smitten  by 
sudden  thoughts  of  how  unwelcome  must  sound  her 
pessimism  regarding  it  to  these  maiden  ears  in  which 
yet  lingered  the  echoes  of  their  lovers'  vows.  But 
the  nimbus  of  sentiment  clung  too  shiningly  about 
either  young  soul  for  any  shadows  of  darksome  pro- 
phecy to  dull  it. 

"I  shouldn't  be  surprised  if  most  wives  were  just 


64  WOMEN  MUST  WEEP 

what  you've  described 'em,"  said  Eunice;  "that  is, 
bullied  almost  to  death  by  their  husbands,  one  way  or 
another."  But  it  did  not  occur  to  her  that  by  the 
vaguest  chance  she  herself  could  ever  be  placed  on 
this  black  matrimonial  sick-list. 

And  with  Dora  it  was  quite  the  same.  "I  haven't 
got  a  doubt,  aunt  'Liza,"  she  said,  "that  thousands 
of  women  in  this  world  could  hardly  see  much  dif- 
ference between  marriage  and  the  toothache  if  one 
didn't  last  an  ever  so  much  shorter  time  than  the  other. 
Isn't  that  the  principal  point  ?  One  can  be  cured,  and 
the  other's  got  to  be  endured."  As  she  spoke  thus, 
the  sprightly  Dora  did  not  dream  of  applying  any 
such  scorching  assertion  to  her  own  beloved  Harvey. 
He,  of  course,  like  Eunice's  equally  prized  Austin,  was 
aloof  and  exempt  from  all  the  alleged  depravities  of 
his  sex. 

And  such  faith  persisted  with  a  steadfast  ardor 
through  the  rest  of  the  winter,  not  fading  a  whit  but 
even  blooming  the  hardier,  as  latter  April  brought 
both  the  girls'  wedding-day  more  charmingly  near. 
It  had  been  decided  that  they  should  both  be  wedded 
a  little  before  the  first  of  May,  and  at  the  same  time. 
Legree  had  managed  everything,  and  through  him 
the  renting  of  the  West  Eleventh  street  house  had 
been  accomplished  with  what  struck  all  who  heard 
of  the  sum  guaranteed  as  a  happily  high  one.  A 
gentle  and  continuous  joy  now  pervaded  this  resi- 
dence over  which  hung  the  fiat  of  coming  exit.  Only 
Annette  was  despondent,  and  she,  poor  soul,  tried 
her  best  not  to  seem  as  if  she  were  dispirited.  But 
her  dread  of  the  general  family  breaking  up  could  not 
be  masked,  no  matter  how  finely  heroic  were  her 
secret  efforts.  One  day  Eunice  found  her  seated  with 


WOMEN  MUST  WEEP  65 

tearful  eyes  in  the  back  parlor,  and  staring  up  at  the 
portrait  of  their  father,  a  work  that  narrowly  escaped 
being  a  daub,  as  much  because  of  its  crude  flesh-tints 
as  of  its  amateurish  pose  and  the  texture  of  its  whis- 
kers, each  hair  of  which  looked  like  a  black  wire 
curled  by  the  nippers  of  a  deft  silversmith. 

"Now,  Annette,"  began  Eunice,  with  her  old  habit 
of  lectureship  at  once  on  the  alert,  "what  does  this 
mean?  You're  crying  here,  and  not  for  the  least 
cause." 

Annette  rose  and  flung  herself,  sobbing,  on  her 
sister's  breast.  She  had  a  great  deal  to  pour  forth, 
in  her  fervid  transport,  about  the  heart-breaking 
novelty  of  the  threatened  change.  Eunice  was  a  little 
stern,  in  her  way  of  being  stern — a  way  which  often 
irritated  outsiders  but  which  Anifette  regarded  no 
more  than  if  it  had  been  the  buzz  of  a  fly.  While  her 
sister  scolded  her  she  dried  her  eyes  and  promised 
that  she  would  not  let  herself  take  the  thing  so  hard 
hereafter,  and  added,  with  a  look  of  self-control  that 
pierced  Eunice,  certain  words  full  of  hectic  and  fac- 
titious hope  regarding  the  good  times  they  were  all 
going  to  have  together  in  those  new  flats  on  Sev- 
enth avenue. 

That  evening,  when  Dora  and  Eunice  were  alone 
together  for  a  short  interval,  the  latter  said,  in  tones 
of  thoughtful  concern . 

"I  really  wish  poor  Annette  wouldn't  take  on  so 
about  us." 

"It's  about  leaving  the  house,"  said  Dora,  with  a 
certain  outward  coldness  that  was  not  coldness  at 
all.  "She'll  get  over  it  soon  enough.  Harvey 
thinks  so." 

"Austin  thinks  so,  too,"  murmured  Eunice.  Then 
5 


66  WOMEN  MUST  WEEP 

she  added,  quite  drearily:  "The  poor  child  is  miser- 
able. She  didn't  eat  a  thing  at  dinner." 

"Pooh!"  said  Dora,  who  always  carved.  "I helped 
her  to  a  big  piece  of  beef,  and  she  eat  every  bit  of  it . . . 
Eunice,  you're  such  a  worrier !  If  we  girls  all  had  a 
million  dollars  apiece  you'd  worry  because  it  wasn't 
two." 

"You  don't  worry,  because  you 're  so  harum-scarum 
and  flighty!"  answered  Eunice,  in  her  best  scolding 
manner. 

And  then  Dora  revolted,  as  she  always  did,  and 
the  two  exchanged  sharp  words  together,  none  of 
which  they  meant,  and  none  of  which  either  of  them 
thought  that  the  other  meant.  It  was  simply  one 
of  their  queer  semi-monthly  quarrels,  which  always 
left  them  looking*  daggers  at  one  another  for  a  few 
minutes  after  they  had  ended,  but  daggers  blunt  and 
bloodless.  Just  as  these  airy  weapons  were  being 
resheathed,  Annette  entered  the  room,  perceiving 
signs  of  the  late  contest.  But  no  sooner  had  her 
sisters  looked  again  at  her  pale  face,  in  "whose  dark 
eyes  gleamed  what  is  perhaps  the  most  poignant  of 
all  pathos,  the  pathos  of  self-control,  than  the  effects 
of  their  recent  excitement  made  them  both  melt  in 
tears. 

"'Pon  my  word,"  cried  Dora,  in  strangled  tones, 
flinging  herself  on  a  sofa,  "it's  killing  Annette,  and  I 
shan't  be  married  at  all.  There !  " 

"Then  I  shan't  be,  either!"  wailed  Eunice,  drop- 
ping upon  the  same  sofa. 

Annette  slipped  in  between  them,  casting  an  arm 
about  each  of  their  necks.  "Oh,  you  two  silly  geese," 
she  said,  "you  know  you  don't  either  of  you  mean  a 
word  of  it!" 


WOMEN  MUST  WEEP  67 

Eunice,  who  -was  wont  to  receive  many  more  ca- 
resses than  she  gave,  now  kissed  Annette's  cheek. 
"Dora's  right,"  she  faltered;  "it  is  killing  you." 

"No,  it  isn't,"  said  Annette,  and  though  her  lips 
trembled  the  tears  did  not  come.  "It's  a  . .  a  wrench 
for  me,  girls— a  pretty  hard  wrench,  you  know— but 
I  guess  that's  going  to  be  all."  She  lifted  one  fragile 
hand,  clenched  it,  and  shook  it  for  a  second  in  air. 
"And  there's  one  thing,"  she  -went  on:  "I  "won't  cry 
at  your  weddings  .  .  no  I  won't !  They  shan't  say  of 
me  that  I  went  round  the  parlors  like  a  kill-joy,  with 
my  face  as  long  as  my  arm — they  shan't  say  it,  not 
if  I'm  sick  abed  for  \veeks  after,  just  from  holding  in!" 


VI 

Annette  kept  her  word.  She  was  pale  and  con- 
strained on  her  sisters'  wedding  day,  but  no  one  saw 
her  \veep.  There  \vere  only  a  few  guests  present;  the 
brides'  recent  bereavement  no  doubt  explained  this 
fact  to  those  of  their  circle  who  were  not  bidden. 
Apart  from  relatives,  the  company  could  almost  be 
counted  on  one's  fingers.  There  had  been  some  talk 
about  two  church- weddings,  but  Legree  had  finally 
negatived  that  plan.  'It  was  cheaper  and  a  good 
deal  cosier  to  be  married  "athome,"he  decided,  afiat 
of  which  Harvey  Kinnicutt,  with  the  terror  of  most 
bridegrooms  as  their  day  of  doom  draws  near,  gave 
sturdy  approval. 

The  Heffernans  of  course  came,  and  the  Giebel- 
houses,  with  little  Mollie,  their  child.  Then  there  w as 
a  cousin  on  the  Bassett  side,  a  Mrs.  Plimpsoll,  who 
brought  her  husband.  Austin  Legree's  kindred  were 
about  seven  in  number:  an  aunt  or  two,  with  their 
lords,  and  a  small  band  of  cousins.  All  of  these  were 
as  different  from  Legree  as  day  from  night,  having 
neither  his  show  of  thrift  nor  his  confident  bearing. 
They  were  all  extremely  poor  people,  dressed  for  the 
most  part  with  pathetic  attempts  at  smartness,  and 


WOMEN  MUST  WEEP  69 

all  plainly  impressed  by  the  distinct  rise  in  life  of  the 
young  Greenwich  avenue  druggist.  Not  so  the  kin- 
dred of  Harvey  Kinnicutt,  who  were  nearly  all  well- 
to-do,  and  one  of  whom,  a  Mr.  Spangle,  owned  a 
large  carpet-house  on  Ninth  evenue.  Mr.  Spangle 
was  indeed  the  social  potentate  of  the  little  assem- 
blage, and  when  he  appeared,  with  his  florid  face, 
bland  smile  and  accentuated  corpulence,  whispers 
about  him  went  round  the  room,  such  as  "That's 
Spangle,  the  big  carpet-man,"  from  the  knowing  ones, 
and  "Oh,  is  that  him?  Why,  how  good-natured  he 
looks,  don't  he?"  from  those  less  sapient.  Mr.  Span- 
gle came  a  trifle  late,  as  befits  a  person  of  financial 
dignity  and  general  superior  status.  Perhaps  the 
two  bridal-parties  may  have  waited  upstairs  a  few 
minutes  for  his  arrival.  While  Catharine,  the  Trasks' 
only  servant,  was  giving  a  last  touch  or  so  to  the 
veil  of  Eunice  with  her  red,  clumsy  hands,  it  is  cer- 
tain that  the  elder  of  the  brides  inquired  somewhat 
nervously:  "Has  Mr.  Spangle  come  yet  ?"  And  when 
she  learned  that  he  had  not  yet  come,  it  is  doubtful 
if  Eunice  felt  her  desire  to  be  punctual  down  there  in 
the  parlor  half  as  acute  as  it  was  before  asking  her 
question. 

She  appeared  first,  leaning  on  her  sweetheart's  arm. 
She  was  dressed  in  a  white  robe  of  tucked  muslin, 
which  she  had  made  herself,  and  she  wore  a  crown  of 
artificial  orange-flowers,  from  which  depended  her 
veil  over  a  face  almost  unnaturally  flushed  by  excite- 
ment. Her  whole  attire  was  dowdy  in  the  extreme, 
and  Mrs.  Hefiernan,  who  knew  all  about  the  fash- 
ions, had  a  pang  of  regret  on  seeing  her.  Aunt  'Liza 
would  so  gladly  have  given  to  each  of  the  brides  an 
entire  outfit,  including  their  wedding-gowns;  but 


70  WOMEN  MUST  WEEP 

she  well  knew  that  her  offer  would  have  been  refused 
with  that  gentle  kind  of  sternness  born  of  inherited 
traditions.  As  it  was,  a  tender  craze  of  economy 
had  ruled  both  sisters  for  weeks  past.  Concerning 
ordinary  apparel  they  were  as  heedful  of  the  reigning 
mode  as  almost  every  New  York  girl  of  our  era, 
whatever  may  be  her  class  or  means;  but  in  the 
matter  of  nuptial  robes  experience  had  taught  them 
little  and  a  piteous  impulse  of  self-dependence  had 
led  them  into  sad  errors  of  taste. 

Poor  Eunice  was  pronounced  a  fright  by  some  of 
her  more  critical  observers,  chiefly  Mrs.  Giebelhouse, 
who  whispered  "  Sakes  alive !  "  to  her  husband  as  the 
trainless  tucked  muslin  swept  over  the  ingrain  carpet. 
"She  looks  live  an  Avenue  A  girl  going  to  take  her 
first  communion,"  this  merciless  judge  \vould  have 
liked  further  to  whisper,  but  did  not  dare;  and 
indeed  such  a  comment  would  have  been  specially 
indiscreet,  just  then,  as  one  of  Legree's  cousins  (a 
shop-girl  in  a  Broadway  emporium)  had  drawn  quite 
close  to  the  florist's  wife  and  was  feeling  between 
thumb  and  forefinger  the  quality  of  her  purple 
watered-silk  frock. 

As  the  costumes  of  Eunice  and  Dora  were  precisely 
alike,  so  \vere  those  of  Legree  and  Kinnicutt.  They 
both  wore  cut-away  coats,  with  broad  lapels  and  a 
button-hole  nosegay.  Their  trousers  were  pearl- 
colored,  and  their  waistcoats,  opening  very  low,  re- 
vealed shirt-fronts  ornately  embroidered  and  plaited, 
with  narrow  neck-ties  of  lilac  satin.  It  was  re- 
marked that  both  young  gentlemen  (though  garbed 
in  a  way  that  might  have  struck  terror  through  a 
more  select  wedding-feast)  looked  handsome  and 
stylish. 


WOMEN  MUST  WEEP  71 

The  two  ceremonies  were  brief  and  simple,  the 
same  clergyman  presiding  at  each.  Even  her  heavA- 
crown  of  cheap  imitation  orange-blossoms  and  her 
some\vhat  coarse  tulle  veil  could  not  make  Dora  look 
anything  but  pretty,  with  the  mutinous  gold  of  her 
curly  tresses,  the  excited  sapphire  gleams  in  her  eyes 
and  the  glad  young  rose  in  her  cheeks.  Her  air  was 
of  course  much  less  serious  than  that  of  Eunice,  and 
"ain't  she  sweet?"  was  spoken  by  more  than  one 
watcher,  below  his  or  her  breath.  The  brides  freely 
mixed  with  the  little  throng  after  their  wedding- 
rites  were  ended.  Legree  was  extremely  ashamed  of 
his  relatives,  who  contrasted  ill  with  those  of  Kinni- 
cutt.  They  all  had  poverty  written  more  or  less 
legibly  on  their  raiment,  and  some  of  them  bore  on 
their  faces  that  look  of  stupor  and  servitude  which 
poverty  begets.  The  young  man  knew  that  all  three 
of  the  sisters  felt  secretly  hurt  in  their  pride,  but 
this  did  not  wound  him  half  so  much  as  the  belief 
that  Mrs.  Giebelhouse  was  probably  sneering  at  his 
low  origin,  either  in  thought  or  in  furtive  semitone. 
He  hated  the  bonds  of  blood  that  had  made  it  need- 
ful for  him  to  ask  this  small  crowd  of  paupers. 
Pangs  of  jealousy  shot  through  him  as  he  saw  Mr. 
Spangle  chatting  with  apparent  jollity  to  oystermnn 
Kinnicutt,  and  dangling  as  he  did  so  the  heavy  gold 
locket  which  hung  from  his  heavy  gold  watch  chain. 
Legree's  own  people  gathered  in  a  group  among 
themselves.  The  others,  all  in  better  clothes  and 
marked  by  an  air  of  comparative  "position,"  ig- 
nored them  and  flocked  apart,  like  birds  of  a  glossier 
feather.  Reflections  literally  curseful  in  their  disgust 
passed  through  Legree's  mind,  but  from  the  even 
smile  on  his  lips  and  the  cheery  alertness  of  his 


72  WOMEN  MUST  WEEP 


mien  you  could  not  have  told  that  he  underwent  the 
least  chagrin.  He  had  risen  from  the  same  ranks  as 
those  in  which  his  connections  now  dwelt,  but  one 
of  the  secrets  of  his  rise  had  been  an  art  to  hide  dis- 
agreeable emotions  when  they  swayed  him.  This, 
for  the  man  who  pushes  and  strives  among  his  race, 
is  a  potent  equipment  inded.  If  Legree  had  been  a 
man  whom  the  world  had  placed  higher  at  the  begin- 
ning of  his  efforts  toward  advancement,  this  force 
of  personal  control  might  have  marked  him  for  a 
most  important  part  in  the  great  human  comedy 
where  ambition  makes  so  many  of  us  aim  to  play 
leading  characters.  As  it  was,  he  could  hate  and 
smile  with  deft  facial  discipline. 

A  vivacious  clamor  of  talk  soon  prevailed  in  the 
little  parlor.  Kinnicutt  went  about,  joking  and 
laughing  with  this  person  or  that,  in  his  bland  and 
simple  style.  As  Legree  had  long  ago  stated  of  him, 
he  had  no  chance  but  one  of  ever  going  to  the  bad. 
He  was  just  now  excessively  happy,  and  said  so  to 
everybody  with  blithesome  abandonment.  The  shop- 
girl related  to  Legree  (the  girl  who  had  stealthily 
felt  Mrs.  Giebelhouse's  dress)  lured  him  by  a  pair  of 
dainty  dimples  and  peachy  tints  in  her  coloring.  New- 
wedded  bridegroom  though  he  was,  this  proved  quite 
enough  for  him.  He  must  present  himself  to  this 
maiden  and  talk  with  her  in  a  gay  strain,  full  of 
partial  flirtation.  She,  honored  and  flattered  by  the 
attention,  and  feeling  herself  singled  out  from  the 
shabby  comrades  near  her,  pulsed  \vith  a  soft  trium- 
phant content. 

Meanwhile  Mrs.  Giebelhouse  had  managed  to  in- 
form her  husband  that  she  guessed  she  wouldn't  stay 
much  longer,  as  she  hadn't  ever  before  been  in  such 


WOMEN  MUST  WEEP 


an  awful  rabble  as  this.  And  when  her  husband, 
with  his  drowsy  amiability,  his  speckless  broadcloth 
suit,  and  his  big  horny  hands,  whose  dirt-caked  nails 
revealed  the  modest  market-gardener  of  the  past  no 
less  than  the  wealthier  florist  of  to-day,  had  drifted 
off  from  her  and  found  other  sources  of  converse, 
she  herself,  in  a  passion  of  exclusiveness,  went  and 
sat  beside  Mrs.  Plimpsoll. 

This  lady  had  just  been  muttering  something  to 
her  qwn  husband,  a  stout  person  with  a  most  ruddy 
and  healthful  air.  "  Your  leg's  gone  to  sleep,  Ezra  ?  " 
she  was  saying.  "Well,  what  if  it  has?  I've  had 
mine  like  that  hundreds  o'  times." 

"  But  it  pricks  so,"  he  whined,  "  and  the— thecalf  s 
so  numb  \vhen  I  pinch  it  that  I  really  think,  Rhoda, 
we'd  better  go,  for  I — I  may  be  on  the  verge  of 
paralysis." 

"  What  next  ?"  frowned  Mrs.  Plimpsoll,  who  was 
a  little  woman  with  a  sagging  underlip  and  in  her 
eyes  an  uneasy  stare  that  made  her  seem  as  if  she 
were  always  living  on  her  nerves.  It  had  long  since 
been  said  of  her  that  in  marrying  Ezra  Plimpsoll, 
the  rich  corner-grocery  man,  she  had  caught  a  great 
prize.  But  now  her  friends  pitied  her  more  than  they 
envied;  for  though  her  husband  had  sold  out  and 
retired  on  his  money,  he  was  in  mortal  dread  of 
dying  each  new  day  of  his  life,  notwithstanding  that 
many  doctors  had  declared  him  quite  sound.  Poor 
Mrs.  Plimpsoll  would  not  have  minded  half  so  much 
being  a  real  nurse  to  him  as  the  sham  nurse  that  she 
was  forced  into  becoming.  The  hypochondriac 
whom  she  had  wedded  was  in  perfect  seeming  health, 
except  for  his  horror  of  illness,  and  his  wife  spent  half 
her  time  in  relieving  his  alarms.  Whatever  ache  or 


74  WOMEN  MUST  WEEP 


nervous  qualm  lie  complained  of  she  always  was 
ready  to  assure  him  that  she  had  had  the  same  affec- 
tion hundreds  of  times  herself.  "A  stopped  up  feel- 
ing in  the  chest,  Ezra!  "  she  would  say;  "why,  only 
last  week  I  had  it  so  that  I  could  hardly  breathe." 
Or  "a  distress  at  the  pit  o'  your  stomach?  Why, 
upon  my  word,  Ezra,  I  had  it  so  awfully  two  days 
ago  that  I  thought  I'd  have  to  tell  you." 

"Why  don't  you  ever  let  on  to  me  about  your  ail- 
ments," he  once  said  to  her,  peevishly  suspicious, 
"until  I've  got  one  of  'em  myself?  " 

"Oh,  I  don't  want  to  bother  you  about  trifles," 
she  would  answer  .  .  .  And  so  months  went  on,  lived 
by  her  in  an  atmosphere  of  constant  domestic  false- 
hood, and  of  anxiety  as  well,  since  she  loved  her 
Ezra  and  was  forever  in  secret  fear  lest  one  of  his 
imaginary  ills  might  prove  actual.  This  marriage 
of  theirs  was  on  her  side  a  perpetual  martyrdom, 
which  she  bore  in  patient  courage.  As  a  congenial 
union  it  had  been  both  a  mockery  and  the  opposite. 
Not  for  untold  gold  would  the  little  woman  whom 
he  was  forever  persecuting  have  failed  to  become  just 
the  faithful  wife  she  was ;  and  yet  beneath  her  fidel- 
ity lay  a  great  tedium.  They  had  money,  a  prett}^ 
home,  a  halcyon  future— and  yet  incessant  worri- 
ment. 

Mrs.  Heffernan  knew  of  all  this  as  well  as  did  Mrs. 
Giebelhouse.  The  three  ladies  now  met,  for  the  two 
last-named  ones  both  chanced  to  approach  Mrs. 
Plimpsoll  at  the  same  time. 

"  How  are  you,  Mr.  Plimpsoll  ?"  said  Mrs.  Heffer- 
nan, putting  out  her  hand.  "Well,  I  hope,  sir;  for 
you  know  I  ain't  able  to  call  it  'better,' "  she  smil- 


WOMEN  MUST  WEEP  75 

ingly  added,  "  'cause  you've  never  yet  seemed  to  me 
the  least  bit  sick." 

"  That's  right,"  said  Mrs.  Pliinpsoll.  "  Pitch  into 
him  real  good,  'Liza',  he  deserves  it." 

"  There's  always  something,  somehow,"  said  Mr. 
Plimpsoll,  with  oracular  vagueness,  while  he  covertly 
pinched  the  leg  that  had  gone  to  sleep. 

"Oh,  yes,  there  always  is  something,"  said  Mrs. 
Giebelhouse,  with  a  movement  of  her  shoulders  in 
their  purple  watered-silk  vestment,  as  though  they 
missed  the  red  worsted  shawl  that  was  their  usual 
fatigue  dress.  "You  can't  go  on  living  one  speck, 
I've  found  out,  except  you're  tripped  up  by  trouble." 

At  this  scrap  of  bitter  philosophy  Mrs.  Plimpsoll 
stiffened  her  slim  neck  and  pointed  with  a  stealthy 
jerk  of  the  thumb,  to  her  husband.  "His  troubles 
are  only  'maginary,"  she  said.  "Ain't  they?"  she 
proceeded,  appealing  to  Mrs.  Heffernan. 

"I  shouldn't  like  to  say,"  Mrs.  Heffernan  replied. 
She  had,  as  we  know,  her  sweeping  views  on  matri- 
mony, and  the  Plimpsolls  only  represented  to  her 
another  phase  of  persecuted  woman.  Then,  non- 
committally,  she  added :  "  It's  so  hard^to  put  your- 
self inside  o'  people's  digestions,  and  all  that.  Doc- 
tors make  believe  to,  but  I  guess  their  fibs  are  most 
as  big  as  their  fees." 

"I  don't  want  anyone  to  get  inside  o'  my  diges- 
tion, unless  he'd  like  to  have  it  land  him  at  Green- 
wood 'fore  next  year,"  said  Mr.  Plimpsoll;  these 
gloomy  words  and  tones  emanant  from  a  positively 
brilliant  visage. 

"Ain't  that  nice  talk  for  a  wedding?"  said  Mrs. 
Plimpsoll,  with  a  strained  smile.  "See  here:  I  tell 
him  he'll  bury  me  and  live  to  marry  two  more." 


76  WOMEN  MUST  WEEP 


In  the  laugh  that  followed,  Mrs.  Giebelhouse  gave 
a  low-lidded  but  searching  stare  at  the  dress  of  Mrs. 
Heffernan.  It  was  clearly  a  costly  one;  in  texture, 
make  and  trimmings  it  eclipsed  her  own.  So  she 
said,  thrilled  by  one  of  those  little  jealousies  that 
crawl  into  this  or  that  cell  of  a  soul  full  of  welcomes 
to  petty  grudges  and  spites : 

"My!  How  good  that  frock  fits!  And  how 
el'gant  it  is !  But  ain't  it  hard,  now,  for  such  fleshy 
folks  as  you  to  get  such  a  real  skin  fit  ?  " 

Mr.  Plimpsoll,  who  disliked  the  speaker,  here  sud- 
denly forgot  his  numb  leg  long  enough  to  befriend 
Mrs.  Heffernan,  whom  he  liked  very  much. 

"  There's  two  common  kitchen-clocks  back  yonder 
among  the  presents,"  he  said.  "I  wonder  who  had 
the  cheek  to  send  'em." 

His  wife  shot  him  a  scared  glance. 

"  'Twas  you,  wa'nt  it?  "  said  Mrs.  Heffernan,  turn- 
ing to  Mrs.  Giebelhouse. 

"Yes,"  came  the  chill  reply. 

"Oh,  was  it?"  said  the  roused  invalid,  who  knew 
quite  well  that  it  was.  "  Excuse  me." 

"Yes,  I  had  the  'cheek',  as  you  call  it,"  pursued 
Mrs.  Giebelhouse,  haughtily.  "I  don't  see  the  use  o' 
silver  tomfooleries  for  girls  that  marry  as  they're 
doing." 

"We  gave  silverware,"  said  Mrs.  Plimpsoll,  brist- 
ling, "but  it  wasn't  tomfoolery.  And  as  for  your 
present,"  she  continued  to  Mrs.  Heffernan,  "those 
dozens  o'  forks  and  spoons  and  table-knives  were 
just  too  nice  for  anything!  " 

"Too  nice,"  giggled  Mrs.  Giebelhouse, gelidly,  "for 
the  rag-tag- and-bobtail  connections  both  girls  are 
forming." 


WOMEN  MUST  WEEP  77 

"  Oho,"  said  Mr.  Plimpsoll,  coming  out  of  himself, 
as  it  were,  in  a  way  that  delighted  his  wife,  even 
though  open  ire  at  Mrs.  Giebelhouse's  avarice 
wrought  the  change.  ' '  So  you  believed  in  suiting  your 
wedding-presents,  eh,  to  the  size  of  the  bridegrooms' 
purses?  " 

"I  gave  all  I  could  afford,"  scowled  Mrs.  Giebel- 
house.  "Please  recollect  that  my  husband  ain't  a 
blood-relation  of  the  Trasks,  whatever  /  may  be. 
And -" 

"Lord!"  cried  Ezra  Plimpsoll,  bursting  into  a 
laugh  so  jocund  that  it  flooded  his  wife's  soul  with 
joy,  "  do  you  mean  to  tell  us  dear  old  Conrad  Giebel- 
house,  the  kindest-hearted  man  God  ever  made,  put 
it  into  your  head  to  send  poor  Eunice  and  Dora 
those  two  kitchen  clocks  ?  ' ' 

And  here  Plimpsoll  exploded  with  laughter,  so  much 
to  the  delight  of  his  faded  little  wife  that  she  put  one 
frail  hand  on  his  shoulder  and  watched  him  with  a 
wistful  fervor  as  he  leaned  back  and  mirthfully  quiv- 
ered. It  was  such  an  age  since  she  had  seen  her  Ezra 
plunge,  like  this,  into  a  bath  of  social  oblivion !  She 
didn't  care  a  fig,  now,  what  had  brought  him  back 
to  his  old  blithe  and  wholesome  self.  She  could  have 
blessed  Mrs.  Giebelhouse  for  causing  the  precious  alter- 
ation— or,  rather,  she  could  have  blessed  her  until 
the  voice  of  the  florist's  wife,  tremulous  with  rage, 
thus  answered : 

"I  guess  you'd  better  go  on  'tending  your  liver  and 
dosing  it  with  quack  medicines.  That  'pears  to  suit 
you  better,  Mr.  Plimpsoll,  than  meddling  does." 

"Wedding-presents  are  free  to  be  talked  about," 
snapped  Mrs.  Plimpsoll,"  when  they're  spread  pro- 
mise'us  on  a  table,  like  these  are.  And  as  for  quack 


78  WOMEN  MUST  WEEP 


medicines— mercy!  The  last  time  I  went  into  your 
bed-room  it  looked  like  a  'pothecary 'son  moving-day. 
Bottles  higgledy-piggledy  everywhere,  and  all  of  'em 
with  patent  labels !  " 

"And  you're  the  last  one  on  earth,  Ida,  to  talk 
about  meddling,'"  began  Mrs.  Heffernan  .  .  But  just 
then  an  eldritch  scream  was  heard,  and  little  Lizzie 
Giebelhouse,  arrayed  in  a  large,  clotted-looking  neck- 
lace of  red  coral,  and  in  blue  kid  boots,  rushed  fren- 
zied-y  to  her  mother.  She  had  tried  to  steal  a  sand- 
wich from  the  luncheon  table,  just  then  being  set,  and 
had  received  a  cold  repulse  from  the  waiter  who 
presided  over  it— a  lank  and  tallowy  stripling  from  a 
near  confectioner's.  Lizzie  Giebelhouse,  like  most  ma- 
rauders, felt  wrathful  at  being  surprised  in  a  secret 
foray.  She  was  too  thin  and  pale,  poor  little  girl, 
ever  to  become  purple  with  passion  ;  but  if  it  had  not 
been  for  her  pallor  and  attenuation  she  would  doubt- 
less have  worn  a  look,  just  now,  as  apoplectic  in  tint 
as  her  mother's  robe,  to  which  she  now  clung,  gasping 
and  frantic. 

As  with  most  spoiled  children,  Lizzie  was  subject 
to  long  catchings  of  the  breath,  always  followed  by 
a  roar  of  misery.  She  caught  her  breath  in  this  way 
the  moment  she  had  gained  her  mother's  side  and 
clutched  the  watered-silk  gown  with  two  fierce  little 
tugging  hands.  Her  closed  eyes,  open  mouth  and 
flung-back  head— a  head  whose  sandy-flaxen  hair  had 
been  left  dishevelled  after  preposterous  crimping— 
caused  Mrs.  Giebelhouse  to  drag  her  away  into  the 
near  hall.  But  before  the  exit  of  mother  and  child 
had  been  performed,  one  of  Lizzie's  worst  roars  broke 
forth,  making  almost  everybody  start. 

"She'll  spank  her,  now,"  said  Mrs.  Heffernan,  with 


WOMEN  MUST  WEEP  "  79 

a  weary  scorn.  "I  guess,  after  all,  it's  a  good  deal 
harder  fate  to  have  children  and  not  know  how  to 
bring  'em  up  than  to  wish  you'd  had  'em  and  yet 
never  own  a  chick  to  your  name."  .  .  . 

New,  though  smothered,  shrieks  presently  sounded 
from  the  hall,  and  the  cheerful  face  of  Mr.  Conrad 
Giebelhouse  saddened  as  he  heard  them.  But  lun- 
cheon was  now  announced,  and  a  look  of  hungry 
interest  possessed  Legree's  ill-clad  swarm  of  cousins. 
They  pushed  their  way  into  the  back  parlor,  whence 
exhaled  an  odor  of  stewed  oysters,  luringly  pungent. 

"Your  governor's  fixing  this  whole  lunch  business, 
ain't  he?  "  Legree  said  in  the  ear  of  his  fellow-bride- 
groom. 

"Yes,"  replied  Kinnicutt,  hoping  no  one  had  heard 
his  parent  mentioned  as  the  reigning  caterer.  "You 
know  that  well  enough." 

"Well,  I  hope  it  '11  go  all  right,"  remarked  Legree, 
turning  away. 

"Oh,  you  bet  it  will,"  was  the  response. 

But  soon  there  was  evidence  that  Kinnicutt's  filial 
confidence  had  been  misplaced,  and  that  the  refection 
was  not  going  all  right  by  any  means.  The  elder 
Kinnicutt  had  undertaken  to  supply  not  merely  the 
stewed  oysters  but  other  edibles  besides,  such  as  the 
vanilla  and  strawberry  ice-creams,  the  mixed  fancy 
cakes  and  the  pyramid  of  candied  orange-quarters. 
But  it  swiftly  transpired  that  so  me  misunderstanding 
had  occurred,  and  that  (oh,  fatal  discovery!)  there 
would  not  be  enough  oysters  to  go  round.  Always 
good-tempered,  Harvey  addressed  his  father  in  ago- 
nized asides.  But  the  gentleman  who  had  almost 
spent  his  life  as  a  commercial  Sixth  avenue  nomad, 
seemed  shocked  now  into  an  imbecile  helplessness. 


80  WOMEN  MUST  WEEP 

The  blunder  being  made,  it  was  manifestly  absurd  to 
try  and  repair  it  at  this  late  date.  Meanwhile  a  few 
people  were  served,  and  the  remainder  left  to  stare 
at  two  empty  tureens.  The  relatives  of  Legree  pierced 
him  with  new  mortifications.  One  of  them,  an 
elderly  lady  with  a  large  braid  of  hair  worn  as  a 
coronet,  secured  a  plateful  of  oysters  and  then  fed 
from  it  her  two  daughters,  both  grown-up  damsels, 
with  her  own  fork.  A  girl  who  witnessed  this  pro- 
ceeding with  eyes  that  had  a  ravenous  glare  in  them, 
suddenly  burst  into  tears. 

"Well,  your  dad  has  made  a  fine  mess  of  it ! "  said 
Legree  to  Harvey  Kinnicutt,  and  poor  Harvey  could 
only  shrug  his  shoulders,  with  despair  in  his  looks. 
Legree  tingled  with  satisfaction,  however,  and  felt 
that  his  own  torments  were  now  being  in  a  measure 
avenged.  He  went  about  from  group  to  group  stating 
through  whose  negligence  the  deficit  had  occurred. 
He  liked  Harvey  as  well  as  he  had  ever  liked  any- 
body ;  it  was  not  that  with  him.  There  was  pleasure 
in  feeling  that  some  one  else  besides  himself  had  been 
bruised,  stung.  Now  and  then  a  guest  would  say 
"Oh,  is  Kinnicutt  the  oysterman  his  father?"  and 
Legree  would  answer  "Why,  yes;  didn't  you  know 
it?  "  with  another  little  twinge  of  gusto. 

The  failure  of  the  oysters  proved  merely  a  com- 
mencement of  like  disasters.  The  sandwiches  disap- 
peared soon  afterward,  and  at  length  a  desperate 
lad  in  a  short  jacket,  with  jowls  and  a  hang-dog  eye, 
made  a  sly  grab  at  the  cake-basket  and  bore  it  to  a 
^corner  in  which  sat  a  small  clique  of  his  own.  But 
this  a.ct  was  quickly  discovered  by  the  waiter  in 
charge,  who  darted  into  the  corner  and  dragged  the 
cake-basket  away  while  rude  hands  were  making 


WOMEN  MUST  WEEP  81 

dives  at  its  contents.  These  would  have  been  wholly 
abstracted  if  some  one  had  not  cried  "For  shame !  " 
The  indignant  waiter,  breathing  hard,  had  set  his 
trophy  of  conquest  once  more  on  the  table  when  he 
suddenly  recollected  that  there  was  a  bowl  of  claret- 
punch  down-stairs, and  hurried  to  fetch  it.  While  he 
was  gone  the  lad  with  the  jacket  and  the  jowls  re-emer- 
ged from  his  coign  of  semi-concealment  among  friends 
and  did  something  surreptitiously  dreadful  to  the 
pyramid  of  candied  orange-quarters,  for  it  partially 
collapsed  and  therewith  the  lad  secured  no  slight 
amount  of  sticky  loot,  after  the  fashion  of  other  more 
historic  depredators.  His  cool  deed  of  infamy  was  a 
signal  for  two  youths  in  another  part  of  the  room  to 
attack  the  little  turrets  of  pink-and- white  ice-cream 
with  spoons  and  plates  as  their  impromptu  weapons 
of  siege.  Quickly,  after  that,  the  sweets  and  the  ice- 
cream were  quite  demolished  by  others,  a  miniature 
horde  in  the  wake  of  these  small  leading  vandals. 
When  the  waiter  arrived  with  the  bowl  of  claret-punch 
he  uttered  a  dismayed  groan  that  "roused  general 
laughter.  But  there  had  not  been  enough  of  these 
latter  dainties  to  satisfy  the  assembled  number,  and 
abruptly  a  wild  shriek  was  heard  from  Lizzie  Giebel- 
house.  "Pink  ice-cream!"  she  shouted.  "I  want 
some  pink  ice-cream!"  Her  lamentation  created 
more  laughter,  and  while  its  peals  yet  rang  she  threw 
herself  on  the  floor  in  front  of  her  mother  and  began 
to  kick  with  a  truly  epileptic  vigor. 

"Conrad!"  cried  Mrs.  Giebelhouse,  and  the  sweet- 
tempered  sire  of  Lizzie  hurried  forward  and  picked 
her  up,  carrying  her  from  the  room,  followed  by  her 
wrathful  mother. 

"Oh,  what  a  funny  marriage  that  is!  "  murmured 


82  WOMEN  MUST  WEEP 

Mrs.  Heffernan  to  the  renowned  Mr.  Spangle,  who 
had  taken  a  seat  at  her  side.  "The  wife's  tyrant 
number  one,  the  child's  tyrant  number  two,  and  the 
husband's  a  willing  slave  to  'em  both." 

"Well,"  said  Mr.  Heffernan,  who  had  just  then 
come  up  to  his  wife  with  a  plate  of  ice-cream  which 
she  refused  to  accept  in  the  circumstances  of  general 
famine  for  that  luxury,  "so  long  as  he  is  a  willing 
slave,  why  ain't  he  happier  than  if  he  tried  to  boss 
things  and  got  kicked  back  for  his  pains?" 

"Ho-ho,  Mr.  Heffernan,"  laughed  Mr.  Spangle, 
who  fairly  exuded  jollity.  "That's  fine  talk  for  a 
wedding !  I'm  glad  my  wife  ain't  here. — What's  that?" 
he  broke  off,  seeing  the  punch-bowl.  "Stuff  to  drink, 
as  I'm  a  sinner!  We  must  propose  the  health  o'  the 
couples."  And  he  hurried  to  do  so. 

The  punch,  like  everything  else,  was  insufficient; 
but  Mr.  Spangle  managed  to  usurp  the  ladle,  dole 
himself  out  three  glassfuls,  and  at  length  launch  into 
a  hymeneal  address. 

It  was  a  very  pompous  and  silly  address,  though 
it  would  have  been  received  with  much  warmer 
plaudits  if  the  thin,  pink  fluid  had  not  proved  so 
sadly  unequal  to  the  consumptive  powers  of  those 
who  hearkened.  A  titter  went  round  when  the 
orator  made,  allusion,  among  other  tumid  common- 
places, to  the  "flowing  bowl"  whence  these  bridal 
healths  were  being  drunk.  So  infelicitous  a  slip 
lamed  the  effect  of  his  further  remarks,  and  he  re- 
tired from^the  void  punch-bowl  with  a  series  of  back- 
ward crestfallen  jerks. 

"  I  wish  I  hadn't  come,"  growled  a  bony  girl  of  the 
Legree  clan,  as  the  whole  assemblage  now  moved 
into  the  front  parlor.  "  If  Tenny  and  me  had  staid 


WOMEN  MUST  WEEP  83 

over  to  the  store  we'd  a  got  something  feat,  not  a 
spoonful  of  ice  cream  and  a  sliver  o'  yeller  candy.  If 
I'd  only  got  a  few  o'  them  cuts  o'  glazed  orange,  I'd 
have  stuck  'em  away  somewheres  for  poor  little 
Tommy.  He  screeched  and  yelled  'cause  we  wouldn't 
let  him  come,  and  we  \vere  'fraid  he'd  carry  on  when 
he  caught  sight  o'  the  lunch.  But  I  guess  he'd  a  be- 
haved better  than  that  Giebelhouse  young  one.  F' 
all  her  blue  kid  gaiters  and  her  fash'nable  frock,  little 
Tom's  got  better  manners  than  her!  " 

"Hush,  Kitty,"  said  the  lady  with  the  coronal 
braid,  who  was  Kitty's  mother  and  the  absent 
Tommy's,  too.  "Keep  your  mouth  shut.  Ain't  I 
often  told  you,  child,  that  it's  good  manners  when 
you're  out  in  company  and  get  riled,  no  matter  by 
what,  to  keep  your  mouth  shut  ?  " 

"She  ain't  had  much  chance  to  open  it  where  the 
grub's  been,  Aunt  Susan,"  said  the  jacketed  youth 
who  had  laid  low  the  pyramid  of  confectionery,  even 
if  his  daring  had  thus  far  fired  no  Ephesian  dome. 

This  bit  of  humor  wrought  its  consoling  effect, 
and  softened  for  its  hearers  the  pang  of  going  hungry 
again  into  the  front  parlor.  There  is  no  such  way  of 
inflicting  distress  upon  a  wedding-party  as  to  dis- 
appoint it  in  the  viands  of  its  expected  feast,  and 
perhaps  Mr.  Spangle  realized  this  during  the  next 
few  minutes  of  low-voiced  talk  and  dreary  general 
awkwardness  that  now  ensued.  Outside  in  the  street 
a  cling-clang  organ  of  the  modern  kind  was  playing 
with  vociferous  ardor.  Nobody  heard  it,  or,  hear- 
ing, nobody  heeded  it,  until  suddenly,  through  some 
audacious  jollity  of  Mr.  Spangle,  its  owner  was  in- 
duced to  enter  with  it  into  the  narrow  little  hall  close 
upon  the  parlor,  Then,  when  its  riotously  jingling 


84  WOMEN  MUST  WEEP 

strains  began,  there  at  the  very  elbows  of  everybody, 
a  great  start  responded,  followed  by  a  great  outburst 
of  acclaim.  And  immediately  Mr.  Spangle,  tripping 
into  the  room  with  his  corpulence  nimbly  set  at 
naught,  exclaimed  in  tones  of  high  glee: 

"A  Virginia  reel,  ladies  and  gentlemen !  A  reg'lar 
old-fashioned  Virginia  reel !  Come,  take  partners ; ' ' 
and  he  made  a  "pigeon  wing"  and  a  bow  before  the 
just-created  Eunice  Legree,  who  rose  bashfully  as  his 
hand  caught  her  finger-tips.  Then  there  was  a  rush 
for  places,  the  bolder  ones  dragging  those  more 
reluctant. 

Meanwhile,  with  glittering  eyes  and  extreme  pallor 
of  visage,  Austin  Legree  arraigned  oysterman  Kinni- 
cutt  in  the  vacated  back  parlor. 

"You've  made  a  fizzle  of  things,  sir,"  he  said,  "  and 
there's  not  a  shred  of  excuse  for  it." 

"Draw  it  a  little  milder,  Austin,"  spoke  Harvey 
Kinnicutt,  who  just  then  came  up  to  him,  Dora 
chancing  to  follow  the  next  minute. 

The  two  bridegrooms  faced  one  another,  as  Mr. 
Kinnicutt  (a  bald  man,  with  a  faded,  irresponsible 
look)  retorted  crisply : 

"  I  guess  he  had  ought  to  draw  it  milder,  upon  my 
word!  Mistakes  will  happen " 

"  Mistakes !  "  Legree  sneered.  "  You.knew  just  how 
many  were  coming.  You've  botched  things  damn- 
ably. It's  an  infernal  shame ;  you  ought  to  go  and 
hide  your  head." 

Neither  Harvey  nor  Dora  had  ever  seen  him  so 
angry  before.  He  appeared  to  them  in  a  new,  as- 
tonishing phase.  It  seemed  to  Dora  that  a  kind  of 
•white  flame,  like  that  of  lightning  itself,  leapt  from 
his  cold,  brilliant  eyes.  Her  thoughts  flew  to  Eunice. 


WOMEN  MUST  WEEP  85 

Surely  she  had  never  known  he  could  look  and  act 
like  this ! 

"Austin,"  Dora  urged,  "never  mind.  It  was  a 
mistake;  it  must  have  been.  And  you  should  learn 
respect  for  your  elders.  What  would  Eunice  say  if 
she  saw  you  now  ?  " 

Legree  ignored  Dora  and  cast  another  scathing 
glance  on  the  elder  Kinnicutt.  "  It's  just  such  devil- 
ish mistakes,  as  you  call  'em,"  he  said,  hoarsely, 
"that  have  made  you  pop  from  place  to  place  on 
Sixth  avenue  for  years  past.  Confound  you,  I " 

"Austin,"  broke  in  Harvey,  "that's  my  father!  " 

Legree  snapped  his  finger  and  thumb  in  the  air. 
"  You  better  feel  proud  of  him  now,  when  he's  made 
of  our  whole  wedding-lunch  nothing  but  a  disgusting 
farce!" 

Harvey's  clouded  face  darkened  more  as  he  turned 
it  on  his  father.  "  By  jove,  that's  true,"  he  said,  the 
great  influence  Legree  held  over  him  re-exerting  its 
force. 

"Harvey,"  exclaimed  Dora,  recoiling,  "you  must 
remember  it  is  your  father,  though!  You " 

But  just  then  the  clamors  of  the  street-organ  struck 
on  all  their  ears. 

"What's  that?  "  shot  from  Legree.  He  hurried  to 
the  open  folding-doors  between  back  parlor  and 
front.  For  some  little  time  he  stood  gazing  at  the 
jaunty  generalship  of  Mr.  Spangle,  while  that  per- 
sonage massed  his  fellow-revellers  for  the  expected 
reel,  and  while  the  newly-domiciled  organ  trilled  its 
tempestuous  allegros.  If,  all  this  while,  he  had  been 
making  up  his  mind  to  act  in  any  resolute  manner, 
he  must  have  reached  a  decision  just  as  the  couples 
had  all  been  marshalled  and  the  dance  was  about  to 


86  WOMEN  MUST  WEEP 


begin.  For  he  then  walked  swiftly  into  the  parlor 
and  in  a  very  commanding  tone  broke  forth  : 

"Mr.  Spangle,  ifyou  please ! " 

With  a  really  noble  twirl  of  one  toe,  Mr.  Spangle 
was  about  to  open  the  dance.  But  he  paused  as  he 
saw  Legree's  pale  face  and  lifted  hand.  "Well,  sir," 
he  said,  "what's  up?  " 

"Just  this,"  replied  Legree,  and  his  voice  had  the 
cut  of  a  knife  in  it.  "You  can't  bring  hand-organs 
out  of  the  street  into  this  house  and  expect  'em  to 
play  for  you  to  polka  by.  If  you  wanted  so  much  to 
have  a  dance,  I  guess  you've  got  money  enough  to 
have  brought  your  own  band  o'  music." 

"Oh,  .  .  I  .  .  have, havel?"  stammered  Mr.  Spangle, 
utterly  taken  aback. 

Legree  deigned  no  answer,  but  darted  out  of  the 
room,  and  almost  in  a  trice  had  hustled  the  organ- 
man  from  the  narrow  little  hall  into  the  street,  where 
he  belonged. 

A  general  murmur,  dubious  in  character,  followed 
the  exit  of  Legree.  Yet  by  the  time  that  he  had  re- 
turned into  the  parlor,  opinion  had  become  definitely 
shaped.  Nearly  everybody  sided  with  the  young 
bridegroom,  in  spite  of  his  having  cut  short  the  pros- 
pective dance.  "He's  perfectly  right,"  passed  about 
the  room  .  .  "Spangle,  the  rich  carpet-man's,  too  fresh 
altogether"  .  .  "It  was  all  a  rowdy  business,  any- 
how" .  .  "I'm  glad  he  fired  up  and  talked  his  mind 
square  out  like  that"  .  .  . 

These  and  similar  comments  greeted  Legree's  sec- 
ond appearance.  Eunice,  mortified  and  trembling, 
met  him,  with  the  words  "Oh,  Austin,  please  excuse 
me/"  He  caught  her  hand,  looked  into  her  face,  and 
the  hardness  in  his  eyes  grew  soft.  What  wonder, 


WOMEN  MUST  WEEP  87 

indeed,  since  she  was  the  only  woman  he  had  ever 
even  remotely  approached  loving,  and  this  was  their 
nuptial  hour?  But  an  impulse  quite  in  accord  with 
his  dying  and  pacified  anger  made  Legree,  while  he 
presently  turned  and  perceived  that  the  important 
Mr.  Spangle  had  sunk,  purple  \vith  rage,  into  a  chair, 
feel  regret  for  having  offended  a  personage  of  so  much 
conceded  wealth.  One  of  his  rare  fits  of  ire  having 
faded,  the  man  became  himself  again ;  and  that  was 
a  self  replete  with  tendencies  of  social  policy. 

Still,  he  chose  no  conciliatory  course.  Gently  lead- 
ing Eunice  from  the  room,  he  whispered  a  few  words 
in  her  ear.  She  at  once  went  upstairs,  he  following. 
Soon  Dora  became  aware  that  she  had  gone,  and 
went  also,  accompanied  by  Harvey. 

Annette  had  wholly  detested  the  idea  of  the  organ- 
grinder's  entrance,  and  this  shock  had  come  rack- 
ingly  upon  her  after  the  shame  of  the  insufficient 
luncheon.  She  had  attempted  no  duties  as  hostess. 
The  best  that  her  strained  and  grieving  heart  could 
do  was  tacitly  to  contain  its  acheful  sorrow.  She 
simply  did  not  dare  to  go  upstairs  and  be  with  her 
sisters  while  they  changed  their  dresses.  She  now 
saw  Mr.  Spangle  rise  from  his  chair  and  stand  for  a 
moment  glaring  all  about  him,  as  though  he  were  in 
search  of  somebody  to  insult.  She  wondered  if  he 
would  select  her,  as  a  scion  of  the  house,  on  whom 
to  pour  his  vials  of  evident  scorn.  When,  in  another 
minute,  he  strode  fiercely  from  the  room,  she  felt  her- 
self breathe  freer.  And  then,  as  it  seemed  to  her,  the 
company  talked  together  in  tones  almost  low  and 
sober  enough  for  a  funeral.  Alas,  it  was  all  a  funeral 
to  poor  Annette ! 

The  time  seemed  interminable  until  her  two  sisters 


88  WOMEN  MUST  WEEP 

and  their  husbands  reappeared,  all  clothed  in  a  far 
different  way  from  that  in  which  they  had  last  been 
seen.  A  throe  of  guilty  grief  now  pierced  Annette. 
They  must  have  needed  her  upstairs.  How  had  they 
got  on  without  her  help  ?  Had  Catharine  properly 
aided  them?  Had  they  thought  her  derelict  and 
marvelled  at  her  absence?  But  she  could  not  have 
gone  up  there — she  could  not !  If  she  had  gone  it 
\vould  have  been  impossible  for  her  to  come  down- 
stairs again  and  see  them  depart — see  them  really  de- 
part from  her,  these  sisters  whom  she  so  treasured 
and  who  might  be  passing  out  of  the  old  sweet  inter- 
sisterly  life  forever  .  .  forever ! 

At  length  there  was  a  flurry  on  the  stairs,  and  the 
parlor  soon  emptied  all  its  guests  into  the  hall. 
Some  of  the  bridegrooms'  friends  were  ready  with 
rice  to  fling  after  both  the  carriages  which  were 
waiting  outside.  As  for  Annette,  she  sat  alone  in 
the  void  parlor,  clenching  her  hands,  fearing  to  stir. 

"I  must— I  must,"  she  said  aloud,  and  rose  to  her 
feet.  Suddenly  Eunice  rushed  into  the  room. 

"Annette,  child,"  she  called,  "  where  are  you  ?  " 

"Oh,  Eunice!" 

"Now  don't  be  so  heart-broken,  Annette!  I'll 
write — I'll  telegraph — so  will  Dora!  Annette!  You 
look  so  strange!  "  The  tears  were  streaming  down 
Eunice's  flushed  cheeks.  "Why  don't  you  cry  as  I 
do,  darling?" 

"I — I  can't,"  gasped  Annette,  pale  as  paper.  "Oh. 
Dora,"  she  exclaimed  an  instant  later,  "you,  too ! " 

The  three  clung  together,  then,  after  Dora  had 
hurried  in,  just  as  they  had  clung  more  than  once 
when  the  shadow  of  death  fell  on  them  a  short  time 
ago.  Some  of  the  guests  pushed  across  the  threshold, 


WOMEN  MUST  WEEP  89 


but  drew  backward  when  they  saw  what  was 
passing.  Eunice  and  Dora  were  both  in  tears.  An- 
nette only  pressed  her  cold  cheeks,  her  cold  lips,  to 
either  face.  "  Oh,  ray  dear  ones,  my  dear  ones ! "  she 
said,  in  a  quivering  whisper.  ' '  Do  forgive  me !  If  I 
look  queer  and  can't  cry  as  you  do,  it  isn't  because 
my  heart  is  breaking— no,  no — but  only  because  it's 
bending  a  little  .  .  bending  .  .  that's  all,  dears,  that's 
all!" 

Annette  scarcely  remembered,  a  half  hour  or  so 
later,  just  how  Catharine  had  got  her  upstairs  and 
laid  her  on  the  small  bed  near  her  sisters'  larger  one 
—the  bed  where  she  had  slept  ever  since  her  father's 
death.  She  knew  the  guests  had  all  gone.  The  little 
house  seemed  very  still.  Aunt  'Liza  had  been  there 
and  kissed  her  and  pressed  her  hand  and  said  she 
would  drop  in  soon  again ;  and  just  before  departing, 
Aunt  Ida  Giebelhouse  had  appeared  and  told  her  to 
cheer  up  and  given- her  a  frigid  kiss,  like  the  peck  of  a 
parrot. 

As  she  felt  stronger,  now,  Annette  rose  from  the 
bed,  walking  somewhat  unsteadily.  Oh,  how  still 
everything  seemed ! 

"  Catharine,"  she  called,  "  Catharine." 

A  few  minutes  later  the  faithful  Catharine  came, 
and  found  that  she  had  sunk  upon  the  floor  in  a 
sitting  attitude  and  bowed  her  head  as  though  op- 
pressed by  "the  change  and  not  the  change"  in  a 
hundred  familiar  features  of  that  silent  room.  But 
she  was  weeping  now,  poor  child,  as  Catharine  tend- 
erly raised  her,  and  weeping  with  all  the  more  vio- 
lence, no  doubt,  because  of  her  long  abstinence  from 
tears. 

New  experiences  in   life  are  not   always   entered 


90  WOMEN  MUST  WEEP 

across  unobstructed  thresholds ;  and  whatever  may 
have  been  just  the  mode  of  ingress  now  used  by 
Annette,  it  surely  cost  her  novel  pain.  For  indeed 
there  are  certain  alterations  in  this  human  lot  of 
ours  which  may  only  be  reached  by  approaches  harsh 
as  those  spiked  walls  over  "which  to  climb  at  all  is  to 
leave  some  of  our  blood  behind  us. 


VII 

When  the  two  bridal  pairs  returned,  after  a  brief 
absence  from  New  York,  it  lacked  only  a  few  days  of 
the  first  of  May ;  and  that  was  the  date  of  general 
exit  from  the  West  Eleventh  street  house.  Annette 
was  a  splendid  helper,  as  both  her  sisters  agreed,  in 
the  toils  and  demands  of  preparation.  She  appeared 
to  have  lost  every  shade  of  her  former  melancholy, 
and  to  be  now  all  hardihood,  sympathy  and  alert- 
ness. There  was  a  great  deal  to  be  done,  for  the 
house  had  been  rented  furnished,  and  the  two  adjacent 
flats  in  the  large  Seventh  avenue  apartment-building 
near  Fourteenth  street  were  bare  of  everything,  from 
carpet  to  window-shade.  Money  was  now  needed 
for  purchases,  and  as  yet  the  Trask  estate  supplied 
but  little.  Austin  Legree  secured  a  liberal  sum,  how- 
ever, which  was  advanced  him  by  Hefiernan.  He  did 
not  mention  this  favor  to  anyone  except  Harvey 
Kinnicutt,  and  then  in  secrecy.  The  days  of  purchase, 
of  packing,  of  cold  mercantile  and  domestic  calcula- 
tion, were  dreary  days  enough  to  those  concerned  in 
them.  ;Then  came  the  actual  occupancy  of  new  quar- 
ters, and  at  last  the  settled  process  of  living  in  them, 


92  WOMEN  MUST  WEEP 

with  Annette  as  Eunice's  companion  for  the  next  six 
months,  according  to  previous  arrangement. 

"  I  guess  you'll  always  stay  here,  though,"  said 
Eunice,  after  Annette  had  slept  for  several  nights  in 
her  small  bedroom,  and  shown  signs  that  she  was 
getting  used  to  its  fair  if  limited  accommodations. 
"You're  now  just  as  much  with  Dora  as  you  are  with 
me,  you  know." 

"So  I  am,"  agreed  Annette.  "Why,  it's  all  one 
stretch  o'  rooms,  Eunice,  with  merely  that  little  hall- 
way between  ours  and  hers." 

"But,  perhaps,  you'll  rather  feel  yourself  Dora's, 
half  the  year,  and  mine  the  other  half,"  said  Eunice. 
"And,  perhaps,"  she  added,  "Dora  may  get  jealous 
if  you  don't." 

"Dora  jealous!"  laughed  Annette.  "You  can't 
mean  it,  Eunice !  As  if  either  of  MS  could  be  jealous 
of  the  way  one  cared  for  the  other !  " 

"I  was  only  joking,  of  course,"  said  Eunice;  and 
Annette,  replying  "I  should  think  you  were!"  struck 
her  playfully  on  the  cheek  .... 

Time  \vent  by.  The  summer  came,  and  it  was  a 
cool  one  through  June,  but  sternly  the  reverse  during 
early  July.  Precisely  alike  in  space,  the  two  adjoining 
suites  of  rooms  were  pretty,  but  by  no  means  com- 
modious. When  the  heat  came  it  wrought  dis- 
comfort, but  both  of  the  young  wedded  couples  ap- 
peared to  stand  it  stoically. 

"I'm  the  only  one  that  complains, "  Annette  said. 
She  sighed,  and  added:  "I  suppose  I'm  the  only  one 
that  misses  the  dear  old  house  we've  left." 

It  seemed  to  her,  all  through  that  summer,  as  if 
her  sisters  could  not  well  be  much  happier  than  they 
were.  There  were  really  two  establishments,  but  it 


WOMEN  MUST  WEEP  93 

often  appeared  exactly  like  one.  The  narrow  little 
intervening  hall  was  so  easy  to  slip  across,  and  then 
any  friend ^of  Eunice's  was  sure  to  be  a  friend  of 
Dora's  too.  A  visit  paid  Mrs.  Legree  was  paid  like- 
wise to  Mrs.  Kinnicutt,  and  vice  versa.  For  a  good 
while  they  all  five  spent  their  evenings  together,  and 
through  many  weeks  of  that  same  placid  unrecorded 
life  which  is  going  on  in  countless  homes,  Annette 
told  herself  that  both  her  sisters  were  married  in  the 
happiest  possible  way.  She  wanted  to  be  excessively 
loyal  and  impartial  in  her  liking  for  either  husband. 
She  did  not  wish  to  care  for  one  the  least  bit  more 
than  she  cared  for  the  other;  but  at  last  she  found 
that  her  preference  was  drifting  in  the  direction  of 
Kinnicutt. 

After  all,  he  was  infallibly  amiable,  and  of  Legree 
that  could  not  be  said.  Legree  was  subject  to  moods, 
and  they  were  not  al \vays  gracious  ones.  Now  and 
then  Annette  wondered  that  Eunice  should  so  quickly 
have  grown  used  to  his  curt  responses  and  loveless 
looks.  It  began  to  dawn  upon  her  that  he  was  not 
an  easy  man  to  live  with,  while  Kinnicutt  was  easy 
in  a  marked  degree.  If  the  husband  of  Eunice  chanced 
to  drop  in  of  an  afternoon  when  she  and  Annette 
were  occupied  with  callers,  nothing  could  excel  his 
manner  for  winsomeness  and  suavity.  But  the  mo- 
ment they  went  away  this  bland  mien  departed  with 
it.  In  his  courting-daj'S  he  had  not  shown  a  glimpse 
of  any  such  repellent  hardness.  "Good  Heavens," 
thought  Annette,  "what  a  lifter  of  veils  marriage  is!" 
One  evening  he  came  home  to  their  five  o'clock  din- 
ner, and  the  joint  of  meat  proved  to  be  quite  reck- 
lessly over-cooked.  '  'You  will  keep  that  Catharine, ' ' 
he  grumbled  to  Eunice.  "She  isn't  worth  hersalt,  as 
I've  told  you  often!" 


94  WOMEN  MUST  WEEP 

"Hush,  Austin,  or  she'll  hear  you,"  said  Eunice. 
(For  they  had  no  other  servant  except  Catharine, 
and  she  constantly  came  and  went  to  and  from  the 
near  kitchen  while  they  dined) . 

"I  don't  care  if  she  does  hear  me,"  retorted  Legree. 
"I've  a  good  mind  to  go  and  discharge  her  on  the 
spot." 
"Oh,  you  mustn't,  you  shant !  "  exclaimed  Annette. 

"She's  been  with  us  so  long,  Austin,  and " 

"She's  not  with  'us'  any  more,  if  you  please,"  he 
broke  in. 

Annette  bit  her  lips,  and  then  a  little  spark  came 
into  each  of  her  big,  dusky  eyes.  "Oh,  I  know  very 
well,"  she  said  bitterly,  "that  our  house  is  broken 

tip thanks  to  you." 

"Thanks  to  me,  eh?"  he  retorted,  with  a  rattle  of 
laughter.  "Well,  I  guess  you're  about  right.  If  I 
hadn't  put  my  brains  to  work  for  all  of  you,  things 
would  'a'  been  blacker  than  they  are  now." 

Annette  gave  her  dark  head  an  irritated  toss.  ' '  You 
had  your  way,"  she  said,  "and  that's  the  long  and 
short  of  it."  Then  she  looked  at  Eunice,  adding:  "I 
begin  to  think  he  has  his  way  a  good  deal  more  than 
might  have  been  expected." 

"Oh,  Eunice  fights  me  enough,  if  you  mean  that," 
he  replied,  with  a  voice  and  air  peculiar  to  himself; 
for  both  were  icy  in  their  repression,  and  yet  full  of 
insolent  challenge,  almost  as  if  their  owner  had  au- 
dibly said:  "See  how  I  keep  my  temper,  try  to  ruffle 
it  as  you  may." 

"How   can   you,    Austin?"   cried  Eunice,  in  hurt 
tones.     "If  there's  one  thing  I  haven't  done  since  our 
marriage,  it's  fight  you." 
Their  eyes  met  across  the  table,  then,  his  cold  and 


WOMEN  MUST  WEEP  95 

shining,  hers  honest  and  reproachful.  An  epoch  was 
made  in  Eunice's  life  by  that  glance  given  and  that 
glance  returned.  She  was  a  high-spirited  nature;  she 
had  been  accustomed  to  lead  at  home  since  early  girl- 
hood, even  her  father  often  yielding  to  her  and  calling 
her  his  young  despot  as  he  did  so.  But  love,  court- 
ship and  marriage  had  enveloped  her  in  a  taming  and 
subduing  spell.  With  Dora  they  had  not  been  agencies 
of  by  any  means  the  same  sort;  they  had  simply 
made  the  younger  sister  more  womanly  and  less 
pranksome.  What  sad  surprises  had  come  to  Eunice 
since  the  beginning  of  her  wifehood  she  had  thus  far 
wholly  failed  to  disclose.  But  this  particular  evening 
sornehow  ended  them.  She  felt  that  whatever  hap- 
pened, now,  she  would  no  longer  pay  it  the  mental 
tribute  of  consternation. 

It  is  this  way  with  so  many  women  newly  mar- 
ried. The}7  descend  to  a  recognition  of  what  their 
husbands  truly  are  by  a  little  stairway  whose  steps 
are  made  of  separate  astonishments  and  alarms. 
There  is  nothing  in  its  way  lovelier— there  is  nothing 
fraught  with  a  sweeter  element  of  picturesqueness — 
than  the  surrender  of  a  proud  and  self-reliant  "woman 
when  passion  and  sentiment  work  in  her  the  humb- 
ling change.  Eunice  had  made  that  kind  of  surrender, 
and  now  there  had  come  a  time  when  for  reasons 
best  known  to  her  own  disappointed  heart,  she  de- 
termined to  retract  it.  The  retraction  was  not  by 
any  means  a  clean-cut  proceeding  at  the  commence- 
ment of  these  new  relations.  But  it  was  evident  to 
Legree;  it  had  its  natal  angles  and  lines  of  formation, 
like  those  of  a  dawning  crystal  watched  by  the  eyes 
of  a  chemist.  For  Legree,  he  was  no  tolerant 
watcher.  He  perceived  the  movement  of  things  per- 


96  WOMEN  MUST  WEEP 


fectly,  and  it  roused  in  him  a  rebellion  thatf  drifted 
upward  from  the  depths  of  his  nature  as  a  sub- 
aqueous weed  might  drift  from  the  bottom  of  a  pool. 

Battle  was  in  the  air,  now,  and  both  of  them 
clearly  understood  it.  Annette  understood  it,  too. 
Almost  with  tears  she  said  to  Dora,  when  the  hot, 
wearisome  months  had  passed  and  autumn's  grate- 
ful respites  had  begun : 

"  I  don't  think  Eunice  is  half  so  happy  as  you  are." 

"No?  "  said  Dora,  questioningly,  and  yet  as  if  she 
had  known  it  all  before.  Then  she  leaned  her  lips 
close  to  Annette's  ear  and  whispered  something,  at 
•which  her  sister  replied : 

"That  might  cause  a  difference  .  .  I  don't  know. 
It's  a  bond,  of  course,  in  the  joy,  the  hope  it  must 
rouse.  Yes,  I — I  wish  it  were  true  of  her  as  it  is  of 
you!" 

"Perhaps  it  may  be,  soon,"  said  Dora,  "and  then 
there'll  be  happier  times." 

Annette  sighed.    "  Will  there  ever  be,  Dora  ?  " 

"  Good  heavens,  Annette !    You  don't  mean " 

"Oh,  I  mean,"  shivered  Annette,  "that  worse  times 
are  coming  for  them  both!  Dora,  you  haven't 
dreamed  of  what  that  man  really  is !  He's  all  for 
self;  he  hasn't  got  a  grain  of  human  feeling." 

"Annette!" 

"Don't  ask  her,  but  watch  and  see  if  I'm  not 
right.  You've  been  blinded  by  your  own  happiness ; 
it's  been  like  a  kind  of  soft  bandage  laid  on  your 
eyes.  .  .  Don't  ask  her  about  it,  I  say,  for  she's  too 
proud  and  too  hurt,  just  now.  She  wouldn't  give  in 
that  he's  \vhat  he  is." 

"You— you  don't  think,  then,  that  he  loves  her?" 
asked  Dora,  with  almost  an  accent  of  fright. 


WOMEN  MUST  WEEP  97 

"  Dora,"  replied  Annette,  solemnly, "  I  don't  believe 
he  ever  loved  any  one.  in  the  "whole  world  except  him- 
self." .  .  . 

When  she  next  saw  Kinnicutt  his  wife  asked  him  his 
frank  opinion  of  Austin  Legree's  nature.  "  After  all, 
Harv.,"  she  said,  "you've  known  him  five  times  better 
than  all  of  us  girls  put  together." 

The  young  man  smiled",  passing  a  hand  over  his 
blonde  curls.  "Austin  wants  his  own  way,  you 
know — and  I  guess  he  just  will  have  it,  pretty  much 
always." 

"  Then  you  think  he  won't  make  Eunice  happy  ?  " 

"  Oh,  I  don't  say  that.  But  she's  got  to  give  in  to 
him.  If  she  don't  there'll  be  war." 

"  Well,  suppose  she  don't,  and  there  is  war.  What 
then?,' 

Kinnicutt  laughed.  "Why,  there'll  be  some  bones 
broken — that's  all." 

Dora  gave  a  little  scream,  and  caught  him  by  either 
shoulder,  gazing  scaredly  into  his  face.  "Harvey 
Kinnicutt!"  she  cried,  "do  you  dare  to  tell  me  that 
he'll  ever  strike  her?  " 

"Oh,  no,  I  didn't  mean  that,  Dora.  God  forbid. 
But  he'll .  .  well,  he'll  lead  her  a  dance." 

"  And  she'll  tire  him  if  he  does !  Trust  our  Eunice ! 
Why,  even  I  am  easier  sat  on  than  she  is." 

"  You !  "  mocked  her  husband.  "  Wait  till  you  dis- 
obey me,  that's  all!  "  And  he  caught  her  pink  little 
ear  between  thumb  and  finger,  at  which  she  gave  a 
scream  of  pretended  anguish  and  struck  him  frown- 
ingly  with  her  clenched  hand.  After  that  he  seized 
her  in  his  arms  and  kissed  the  ear  that  he  had  pinched, 
while  she  cried  out,  "Stop  it,  sir,  I'm  very  angry  at 
you"— secretly  thinking,  all  the  while,  how  dreadful 


98  WOMEN  MUST  WEEP 

it  was  that  Eunice  should  not  have  married  in  the 
same  happy  way  as  herself. 

The  full  arid  amplitude  of  Legree's  selfishness  had 
not  appealed  to  his  friend.  Kinnicutt's  perceptions 
of  character  were  short-sighted;  if  they  had  not 
been  he  might  have  made  a  better  newspaper  man. 
He  saw  Legree,  as  it  were,  in  admiring  perspective. 
But  there  were  other  modes  of  seeing  him,  and  some 
of  these  it  was  now  the  harsh  fate  of  Eunice  to  test. 
The  truth  was,  he  belonged  to  that  class  of  men  who 
are  called  bullies  when  they  wear  shabby  gear  and 
let  their  beards  push  out  into  a  week's  growth,  but 
who  are  called,  when  they  don  smarter  habits  and 
respect  a  razor,  by  the  daintier  name  of  autocrats. 
Legree  was  only  happy,  in  a  domestic  sense,  when 
he  was  enforcing  obedience.  Socially  it  was  quite 
otherwise  with  him.  Even  to  cross  over  into  the 
Kinnicutts'  rooms  made  a  difference  in  his  demeanor. 
At  the  drug-shop,  too,  he  was  for  the  most  part 
genial  enough  \vith  dependents,  a  word  or  two  of  often 
just  reproof  being  nearly  always  followed  by  a  soft- 
ening air.  Home  was  the  one  theatre  of  his  tyrannic 
exploits.  Instinctively  he  must  have  meant  it,  when 
he  created  it  by  marriage,  to  stand  for  a  sort  of  dis- 
robing chamber,  in  which  all  disguises  worn  else- 
where should  be  flung  aside  on  passing  its  threshold. 
His  choice  of  Eunice  had  been  an  odd  one ;  it  was  not 
solely  founded  on  ambition,  though  that,  as  a 
motive,  had  swayed  him.  Some  latent  trait  of 
potential  defiance  in  her  had  piqued  him  to  passion  ; 
there  are  men  who  only  love  when  she  who  attracts 
them  suggests  the  triumph  of  future  subjugation. 
For  Eunice,  the  moment  that  he  lost  the  heroic 
glamour  in  which  she  had  clothed  him,  he  became 


WOMEN  MUST  WEEP  99 

like  one  of  her  ordinary  associates,  a  person  to  be 
approved  or  disapproved  as  his  conduct  lowered  or 
lifted  him  in  her  sight.  She  had  not  yet  ceased  to 
care  for  him,  but  her  manner  of  caring  for  him  had 
lost  its  romantic  allegiance.  Her  regard  now  wanted 
to  judge,  dictate,  rebuke,  counsel.  And  in  the  circum- 
stances this  desire  was  one  fraught  \vith  terrible 
threat  to  her  wifely  peace. 

A  week  or  two  later  he  came  around  from  the  shop 
one  afternoon  when  Annette  chanced  to  be  out,  and 
in  his  humor  she  noted  a  certain  buoyant  security. 
He  soon  said  to  her,  while  she  stood  in  their  bed- 
room, sorting  some  new  washed  underwear  and 
placing  it  in  the  bureau-drawers  where  they  belonged: 

"  I  guess  this  year  is  going  to  be  the  best  that  store 
has  ever  seen  since  trade  was  started  in  it." 

"  Yes?  "  she  answered,  and  then  with  a  thought  of 
her  father's  long  tarriance  there  among  the  drugs 
and  vials,  continued:  "That's  a  pretty  bold  state- 
ment, isn't  it,  Austin  ?  Poor  pa  worked  there  a  good 
many  years,  you  know,  and  made  things  pay  rather 
well." 

"Oh,  I  understand  all  that.  But  what  I  said  I 
meant." 

"  Did  you  ?  I'm  glad  enough  if  affairs  are  so  pros- 
perous. Now  that  one  of  the  mortgages  can't  bother 
us  any  more,  it  \vould  be  splendid  if  we  could  soon 
get  rid  of  the  other." 

"Quite  right.  I  want  to  manage  it,  and  so  clear 
the  estate."  Legree's  rectitude  in  business,  in  all 
dealings  monetary  or  commercial,  was  flawless. 
Whatever  his  faults,  no  one  could  cast  a  slur  upon 
his  shining  probity. 

"Yes,"  Eunice  assented.    "I  do  hope  the  estate 


100  WOMEN  MUST  WEEP 

(though  that  seems  such  a  grand  word  to  use  for  it!) 
can  be  cleared  soon.  Then  we'll  each  have  our  own 
clear  share,  you  see,  and  if  Annette  should  marry 
during  the  next  few  years  she'll  know  exactry  how 
she  stands." 

Legree,  who  had  thrown  himself  into  a  chair  and 
now  sat  with  legs  crossed  and  arms  folded,  began  to 
stare  straight  ahead  of  him  in  a  blank,  musing  style. 

"  The  shares  of  each  of  the  three  heirs  are  all  clear 
enough  now.  The  law  provides  'em  and  makes  as 
good  a  will,  after  all,  as  any  Isaac  Trask  could  have 
made  himself." 

"Yes,  indeed,"  said  Eunice,  nodding  decisively.  "I 
saw  that  when  we  all  had  to  go  down  and  sign- 
papers  there  at  the  City  Hall.  How  long  ago  it 
seems!  So  this  other  mortgage  won't  make  any 
difference  about  the  division  of  the  property?  " 

Not  looking  at  her,  and  still  in  the  same  posture,  he 
went  on:  "Good  heavens,  why  should  it?  What 
ignoramuses  j^ou  women  are  about  these  matters ! " 

Eunice  bristled,  but  said  nothing.  She  continued 
the  work  of  folding  and  putting  the  garments  into 
their  proper  places. 

In  tones  of  rumination  he  soon  proceeded :  "Let 
the  business  keep  for  a  few  months  longer  as  thrifty 
as  it  is  now,  and  I'll  pay  Heffernan  my  debt  to  the 
last  dollar." 

"Heffernan?"  said  Eunice,  turning  toward  him 
with  a  start. 

He  answered  her  start  with  one  of  his  own,  and 
laughed,  a  little  embarrassedly.  "  By  Jove,"  he  broke 
out,  "I  was  kind  o'  talking  to  myself,  I'm  'fraid. 
Oh,  well;  let  it  go.  If  you  didn't  know  before,  you 
might  as  well  know  now." 


WOMEN  MUST  WEEP  101 

"Know  what?"  asked  Eunice.  "That  you've 
been  borrowing  money  from  un— from  Andrew  Hef- 
fernan?  " 

"Why  not  say  uncle  Andrew  Heffernan?"  he  re- 
turned. "Are  you  ashamed  to  call  him  so?  You 
needn't  be.  The  money  I  gave  you  three  girls  for  the 
business,  when  I  bought  you  out,  came  from  his 
pocket." 

Eunice  kept  silent,  a  look  of  accusation  leaving  her 
eyes.  This  mute  answer  appeared  to  prick  its  recipi- 
ent, for  he  rose  from  his  chair  and  threw  his  head 
back  affrontedly,  saying: 

"If  you  don't  like  it  you  can  do  the  other  thing — 
that's  all.  I  let  it  slip,  but  there's  no  reason  why 
you  shouldn't  have  known  it  long  ago." 

"Then,"  said  Eunice,  in  her  most  judicial  voice,  "if 
there  was  no  reason,  why  didn't  you  tell  it  to  me 
long  ago?  " 

He  giggled,  and  \vith  plain  insolence.  "Is'pose  I 
must  have  thought  you'd  sputter,  just  as  you're 
doing  now." 

Eunice  gathered  her  brows  together.  "  You  knew," 
she  said,  "that  we  wouldn't  have  let  you  buy  pa's 
business  out  with  money  borrowed  from  him." 

"  Bosh !  His  money's  as  good  as  anybody  else's." 

"  That  may  be.    But  it  doesn't  touch  the  point." 

"Oh,  it  don't,  eh?" 

"  Pa  never  approved "  she  began,  and  then  broke 

off.  "But  let  that  pass,  Austin.  You  understood 
just  how  we  felt— how  poor  pa  had  felt  for  years. 
You  deceived  us.  It  wasn't  nice  in  you.  It  was  a 
mean  trick  for  you  to  serve  us. 

"Mean,  was  &,  eh?"  he  said,  coming  toward  her 
with  both  hands  in  his  pockets  and  his  face  grown 
perceptibly  paler. 


VIII 

Eunice  did  not  flinch  a  jot  while  he  thus  approached 
her.  "  Yes,"  she  said,  "it  was  mean." 

He  was  quite  close  to  her  as  he  replied:  "Do  you 
know  that's  a  pretty  saucy  way  for  you  to  talk  to 
me?" 

"Is  it?"  she  said,  with  her  eyes  flashing.  "Then 
I'll  be  saucier  still,  Austin.  I'll  tell  you  that  you 
treated  your  wife  and  your  two  sisters-in-law  as  no 
man  with  a  spark  of  the  right  respect  for  them  ought 
to  have  done.  I  don't  know  what  I  shall  say  to  Dora 
and  Annette!  They'll  both  be  horribly  put  out,  of 
course.  We  were  all  three  brought  up  to  honor  our 
father's  wishes." 

He  pushed  out  his  underlip  -with  an  effect  that  she 
had  never  seen  on  his  face  before.  "Pish!"  he  ex- 
claimed. "In  a  good  many  things  that  father  of 
yours  was  a  devilish  old  fool." 

It  was  perhaps  her  look  of  agony  and  anger  that 
caused  him  to  turn  away.  As  he  did  so  she  took  a 
few  steps  toward  him. 

"How  dare  you,  Austin  Legree?"  rang  her  next 
words.  "  To  speak  like  that  of  him  !  It's  too  horri- 
ble!"  Then  she  went  to  a  wardrobe,  unclosed  it  and 


WOMEN  MUST  WEEP  103 

stood  quite  still.  In  the  silence  that  now  came  be- 
tween them  he  could  see  her  tight-clinched  lips  and 
knotted  hands.  He  had  a  desire  (not  of  rage,  at  all, 
but  one  simply  masterful  and  imperious)  to  seize  her 
body  and  shake  it,  to  force  her  hands  open  by  wrench- 
ings  or  even  blows.  As  he  watched  her  it  gave  him  a 
thrill  to  think  of  his  own  potential  cruelties ;  he  seemed 
to  lean  over  a  verge  of  self-confidence  and  look  at 
the  extent  of  brutality  that  was  possible  to  him, 
where  it  stretched  vaguely  below. 

Eunice  made  a  visible  effort,  and  after  folding  a  gar- 
ment that  hung  across  her  arm,  placed  it  on  one  of 
the  wardrobe  shelves.  While  she  did  this  her  face  was 
half  turned  from  him  ;  but  on  a  sudden  she  veered 
round  and  showed  him  that  her  checks  were  a  blaze 
of  color.  She  was  one  of  those  women  whom  agita- 
tion reddens. 

"  Look  here,"  she  said,  in  a  choked  voice.  "  Pa's 
picture's  hanging  there  in  the  parlor.  Before  you  and 
I  can  ever  be  friends  again,  you've  got  to  go  and 
stand  in  front  of  it,  Austin  Legree,  and  tell  me  you're 
sorry  you  insulted  him  and  ask  me  to  forgive  you." 

He  burst  into  a  peel  of  scoffing  laughter.  "Mark 
my  words,  now,"  she  cried,  with  lifted  hands,  like  a 
fiery  young  prophetess.  "You  shall  do  it,  or  we  shall 
never  again  be  on  any  but  the  coldest  terms." 

While  he  repeated  his  laugh  she  hurried  from  the 
room.  In  a  little  while  Annette  returned,  and  she 
told  her  everything. 

Annetta  was  at  first  indignant.  Then  she  grew 
melancholy.  "  Oh,  how  could  he  so  have  lowered 
himself  as  to  speak  of  pa  like  that?" 

"Pa,"  exclaimed  Eunice,  with  her  head  in  the  air, 
"  who'd  made  him  what  he  is !" 


104  WOMEN  MUST  WEEP 

"That's  true,"  agreed  Annette.  She  did  not  receive 
it  at  all  as  the  other  did.  There  was  no  dictatorship, 
no  domination  about  this  younger  sister.  Dora  had 
flashes  of  these  qualities,  but  by  no  means  in  the 
measure  possessed  by  Eunice.  The  eldest  of  the  fam- 
ily had  alwa}rs  taken  upon  herself  to  do  all  the  scold- 
ing, arraigning  and  even  inflicting  of  penances.  It 
was  with  a  certain  awe  of  her  sister's  past  rule  that 
Annette  now  continued :  "And  you  really  mean,  then, 
not  to  make  up  with  him  at  all  until  he  apologizes  ?" 

"He  must  go  with  me  before  pa's  portrait, "  de- 
clared Eunice,  having  just  then  a  look  and  an  accent 
that  her  observer  had  noted  hundreds  of  times  in 
other  days,  "and  he  must  ask  both  pa's  forgiveness 
and  mine." 

"Oh, "murmured  Annette  anxiously,  clasping  her 
hands,  "what  if  he  shouldn't  do  it?" 

"You  mean,  of  course,  if  he  refuses." 

"Yes." 

"  Oh,  very  well !  7ethim.  I  guess  he'll  be  sorry, 
sooner  or  later." 

"But,  Eunice,"  pleaded  Annette,  "he's  your  hus- 
band, you  know.  And  a  wife  can't " 

"Now,  Annette,  don't  law  down  the  law  to  me,  if 
you  please"  Eunice  broke  in.  "I  know  exactly  what 
I'm  about."  And  then  she  began  to  scold  and  lecture 
Annette  in  the  form  with  which  her  sister  was  per- 
fectly familiar  and  to  which  she  listened  in  the  most 
complaisant,  matter-of-course  way , knowing  \vell  that 
behind  any  snubs  and  hurts  that  Eunice  might  ad- 
minister, slept  a  rich  fund  of  love. 

"  I  should  think  you  would  stand  up  for  poor  pa's 
memory  as  much  as  I  do,"  Eunice  recommenced,  and 
followed  this  reproach  by  views  upon  the  mutual  ob- 


WOMEN  MUST  WEEP  105 

ligations  of  the  married  state,  interblent  with  not  a 
few  sharp  personal  raps,  such  as  "Dora  will  feel  with 
me  if  you  don't,"  or  "It's  high  tinre,  child,  that  you 
got  to  see  what  a  big  difference  there'll  be  between 
honoring  your  own  future  husband  and  letting  him 
treat  you  like  a  slave." 

At  dinner,  that  evening,  there  was  complete  silence 
between  husband  and  wife,  though  either  of  them  ad- 
dressed certain  remarks  to  Annette.  Afterward  Le- 
gree  left  the  house,  going,  as  he  nearly  always  did,  to 
the  near  drug-shop,  which  was  not  shut  until  ten 
o'clock. 

People  who  dwell  in  close  quarters  like  those  usually 
found  in  a  Seventh  avenue  flat,  cannot  maintain 
quarrels— especially  when  they  are  matrimonial  ones 
— with  any  marked  amount  of  dignity  on  either  side. 
Eunice  began  to  realize  this  fact  as  she  thought  of  her 
husband's  return,  and  the  excited  flush  hardly  \vaned 
from  her  face  throughout  all  that  evening.  She  and 
Annette  spent  two  hours  of  it  in  Dora's  parlor.  The 
whole  story  of  the  disagreement  was  repeated,  and 
Kinnicutt,  before  he  departed  to  perform  a  piece  of 
night  reporting,  heard  it  in  full.  While  he  put  on  his 
overcoat  he  said  to  Eunice  in  a  tone  of  gentle  but  con- 
fident warning  : 

"  Don't  you  push  things  too  far.  Take  my  advice. 
Austin  won't  be  driven." 

"Neither  will  I! "  flared  Eunice,  with  head  an  inch 
higher  than  was  her  wont  to  hold  it.  "  Is  there  any 
reason  why  one  of  us  should  have  the  right  to  do 
more  driving  than  the  other?" 

Kinnicutt  smiled  and  shrugged  his  shoulders. 
"Some  folks  must  be  humored  so  as  to  get  along 
with  them,"  he  said.  "  Everybody  '11  tell  you  that." 


106  WOMEN  MUST  WEEP 

"Everybody  can  tell  it  to  me  till — till  everybody's 
black  in  the  face,"  replied  Eunice.  "But  that  won't 
make  it  so.  Folks  that  want  to  get  more  than  they 
give — more  than  they  either  ought  to  want  or  ought 
to  have  given  'em— should  be  taught  lessons." 

"You  can't  teach  Austin  lessons  like  that,"  said 
Kinnicutt,  very  seriously,  as  he  began  to  button  his 
overcoat. 

"Oh,  well,"  declared  Eunice,  with  a  bitter, nervous, 
obstinate  hardening  of  the  mouth,  "  at  least  I'm  able 
to  try." 

When  Kinnicutt  had  gone,  she  talked  to  Dora  and 
won  her  inevitable  sympathy.  At  the  same  time, 
Dora  proffered  characteristic,  half-humorous  counsel. 
"I'd  make  believe  I  didn't  mind  it,  for  the  present, 
Eunice,  and  then  some  day  I'd  give  him  such  a  dig 
about  his  own  people  that  he'd  have  to  fire  up ;  and 
when  he  did,  I'd  say,  'why,  mercy  me,  my  gentle- 
man, does  this  kind  o'  thing  bother  you  as  much  as 
it  does  me?'  I'd  catch  him  that  way;  you  might 
make  him  just  squirm  \vith  rage,  but  you'd  show 
him  you  could  hit  back  when  the  time  came." 

But  no  such  course  pleased  Eunice.  Her  nature 
was  deeper  than  Dora's,  and  her  sense  of  justice  was 
hence  more  acute.  She  demanded  from  her  husband 
the  same  sort  of  reparation  which  she  herself  would 
have  been  willing  to  make  if  any  like  fault  could  have 
beed  laid  at  her  own  door.  Just  as  he  was  born  for 
domination,  so  was  she  born  for  revolt.  In  one  was 
the  spirit  of  masculine  oppression;  in  one  was 
that  of  feminine  liberty.  One  would  have  made  an 
excellent  suzerain ;  the  other  would  have  failed  sadly 
as  a  serf. 

"He  must  \vipe  away  that  slander,"  said  Eunice, 


MUST  WEEP 


with  grim  firmness,  just  before  she  left  Dora's  room. 
"As  Aunt  Ida  Giebelhouse  put  it,  a  woman  has  got 
to  begin  right  when  she  marries.  I'm  going  to  begin 
that  way.  I'll  take  my  stand,  come  what  will." 

A  little  before  ten  o'clock  she  kissed  Annette  and 
told  her  to  go  to  bed.  Poor  Annette  obeyed,  and 
while  she  was  undressing  heard  Legree  come  in.  But 
only  silence  followed,  though  she  expected  the  dis- 
tressing reverse.  As  the  silence  continued  (not  even 
the  least  sound  of  a  voice  breaking  it)  she  at  last  fell 
asleep. 

When  she  met  them  at  breakfast  the  next  morning 
she  knew  that  the  same  silence  must  have  gone  on  till 
then.  A  few  commonplaces  passed  between  herself  and 
Legree,  and  presently  he  rose,  soon  afterward  going 
out.  Annette  looked  across  the  table  at  her  sister. 

"Oh,  Eunice,"  she  said,  "things  can't  keep  on  like 
this." 

"/don't  want  them  to  keep  on,  I'm  sure,"  said 
Eunice,  loftily. 

"  But  you  might  speak  to  him." 

"He  don't  give  me  a  chance.  Last  night  when  he 
came  in  he  passed  me  by  with  a  look.  .  .  Well,  if  I'd 
been  the  lowest  of  the  low,  he  couldn't  have  made  it 
much  worse!  I  'spose  he  expects  me  to  beg  his  par- 
don, or  do  some  such  crazy  thing.  But  let  him  ex- 
pect what  he  pleases.  I've  made  my  resolve,  and  I 
won't  budge  from  it  one  jot." 

A  little  later  that  morning,  Mrs.  Giebelhouse  and 
Lizzie  appeared.  Dora  was  sent  for,  and  the  lady 
was  soon  in  converse  with  her  three  nieces.  She  had 
on  a  street-costume  which  she  held  to  be  in  the  pink 
of  taste,  but  which  her  present  observers  clearly 
recognized  as  one  of  the  freaks  of  her  deathless 


108  WOMEN  MUST  WEEP 

economy.  It  betrayed  that  tentative  effect,  as  re- 
garded the  slopes  of  its  cutting,  which  bespoke  some 
cheap  dressmaker  "in  for  the  day."  Lizzie  had  a 
flamboyantly  holiday  air  with  respect  to  her  dress, 
but  only  scowls  of  the  shabbiest  kind  for  her  cousins. 
She  was  not  at  all  diffident,  but  merely  cross  and  un- 
social. She  clung  to  her  mother,  refusing  all  hospi- 
talities of  an  immaterial  sort,  and  hiding  in  the  heart 
that  must  have  lain  somewhere  inside  her  narrow 
little  stooping  chest  agreed  for  "something  nice  to 
eat,"  which  her  mother  had  sternly  forbidden  her  to 
mention.  .Annette  soon  went  and  got  her  a  large, 
red  apple,  which  she  seized  without  the  ghost  of  a 
"  thank  you,"  and  which  she  was  at  once  maternally 
forbidden  to  bite.  Eunice,  who  disapproved  of  Lizzie, 
secretly  deplored  Annette's  gift.  After  receiving  it 
and  being  commanded  not  to  touch  it  with  her  tiny 
teeth,  Lizzie  kept  staring  at  it  with  an  avid  flicker  in 
her  dull  eyes.  She  was  not  at  all  a  bashful  child;  her 
sullenness  had  no  such  excusable  source.  All  through 
her  visit  she  kept  lifting  her  thin,  strait  little  face, 
with  its  high  cheek  bones  and  its  healthless  pallor, 
to  the  face  of  her  mother,  its  maturer  counterpart. 
Questions  accompanied  these  looks,  peevish,  auda- 
cious, commanding,  each  in  its  way  the  very  essence 
of  juvenile  crudity. 

"It  was  such  a  beautiful  day,"  Mrs.  Giebelhouse 
announced,  "  that  I  thought  I'd  drop  in  and  see  how 
you  girls  were  getting  on.  .  .  So  you're  real  settled, 
ain't  you? ' '  and  she  looked  about  her  with  a  glance 
that  might  have  belonged  to  a  newspaper  critic  at 
the  first  performance  of  a  play  by  his  pet  foe. 

"We  wondered  what  had  become  of  you,  Aunt 
Ida,"  said  Eunice,  with  a  little  attempt  to  be  affable. 


WOMEN  MUST  WEEP  109 


"  Me?  Oh  dear!  I've  had  a  dreadful  cold  since  the 
last  one  of  you  girls  called;  and  then  Lizzie  here 
(mind  you  don't  bite  that  apple  now  till  you  get 
home!)  has  had  cramps  and  toothache  and  Lord 
knows  what  else.  Mr.  Giebelhouse,  he  -wanted  to  go 
down  to  Florida,  but  I  sat  down  on  that,  Jean  tell 
you." 

"Ma,"  said  Lizzie,  pulling  at  her  mother's  gown, 
"what  was  it  you  sat  down  on?  Ma!  What  was 
it?" 

"I  guess  it  was  your  pa,"  said  Mrs.  Giebelhouse, 
looking  at  her  nieces.  "I  hate  travelling;  I  have  to 
lay  right  flat  on  my  back  nearly  all  the  time  I  sail, 
and  the  cars  ain't  much  better,  for  they  make  me 
sick  to  the  stomach,  too."  "  I  d'clare,"  she  continued, 
with  one  of  her  bleak  laughs,  and  a  drawing  together 
of  her  spare  shoulders,  as  though  they  craved  the 
worsted  shawl  that  so  often  clad  them,  "  I  sometimes 
b'lieve  the  Lord  either  put  me  together  in  a  hurry  or 
was  thinking  of  something  else.  Anyhow,  I  ain't 
good  for  much,  ailing  'most  always  as  I  am — 'cept  to 
make  your  uncle  Conrad  toe  the  mark." 

"Doesn't  Uncle  Conrad  ever  refuse  to  toe  the 
mark?  "  asked  Eunice,  and  both  her  voice  and  words 
drew  toward  her  the  glance  of  either  sister. 

"  Oh,  yes,  now  and  then.  The  other  day  he  kicked 
a  little  when  I  said  I  wouldn't  go  South.  And  when 
I  said  I'd  a  good  deal  rather  die  here  comf  table  in 
my  own  house,  he  kicked  more." 

"Pa  didn't  never  kick  you,  ma,"  affirmed  Lizzie. 
"  Did  he  ?  Did  he,  ma  ?  Did  he  ?" 

"  I  rather  guess  not,"  said  Mrs.  Giebelhouse,though 
without  even  a  glance  at  the  pallid  little  questioner, 
who  again  pulled  at  her  gown. 


110  WOMEN  MUST  WEEP 

"But  I  shut  him  right  up,  girls.  I  showed  him  he 
mustn't  try  to  bulldoze  me," 

"How  did  you  show  him,  Aunt  Ida?"  asked  Eun- 
ice ;  and  again  the  double  sisterly  look  stole  toward 
her  with  gentle  and  covert  anxiety. 

"Oh,  I  talked.  I  talked  for  about  five  minutes 
\vithout  stopping.  Your  Uncle  Conrad  is  rather 
'fraid  o'  that,  and  I  found  out  a  good  while  ago  that 
there's  hardly  anything  a  wife  can  do  that  works 
like  a  strong,  steady  flow  o'  talk." 

"I  shouldn't  want  my  husband  to  be  under  my 
thumb,"  said  Dora,  gayly.  "If  he  was,  I  should  get 
so  tired  keeping  him  there." 

"All  right,"  said  Mrs.  Giebelhouse,  with  a  shrewd, 
acid  little  nod.  "  Take  your  thumb  off,  if  you  choose, 
and  give  him  his  head.  Mebbe  some  day  you'll  be 
sorry  you  did." 

"You  speak  as  if  you  thought  there  were  lots  of 
wives  who  were  sorry  that  way,"  said  Eunice. 

"So  there  is,"  asserted  Mrs.  Giebelhouse.  "Lots 
and  lots.  They  don't  begin  right.  I  hope  both  you 
and  Dora  have  begun  right." 

"What  is  beginning  right?"  asked  Annette,  after 
another  nervous  side-glance  at  Eunice.  "  Isn't  it  for- 
giving more  than  blaming?  Christ  taught  that: 
why  shouldn't  wives  practice  it?  " 

"  Oh,  don't  lug  in  religion''1  chid  Mrs.  Giebelhouse. 
"  That's  well  enough  for  Sundays,  but  marriage  has 
got  six  other  kinds  o'  days  every  week,  and  whether 
you  care  to  put  it  in  your  pipes,  girls,  and  smoke  it, 
or  whether  you  djon't,  there  ain't  anything  that 
mortgages  a  man  to  Old  Nick  himself  in  the  way  o' 
capers  and  deviltries  worse  than  one  o'  your  meek 
spirits  on  the  wife's  part.  That  meek  spirit's  done 


WOMEN  MUST  WEEP  111 

more  harm  than  tongue  can  tell ;  I  hate  these  flabby 
women  that  give  in  and  don't  take  an  tipper  hand 
right  from  the  word  '  go.'  I  tell  ye,  girls,  the  men  ex- 
pect to  be  bossed,  and  when  they  ain't  it  disappoints 
'em.  And  the  disappointment  ain't  sobering,  neither; 
it  works  on  'em  in  a  frisky  way.  Why,  mercy!  If 
your  Uncle  Conrad  hadn't  been  caught  hold  of  with  a 
firm  grip  right  at  the  start,  there's  no  telling  how  he 
might  'a'  cut  up.  Always  recollect  one  thing,  girls : 
marriage  means  give  and  take  on  both  sides,  but  the 
more  we  women  folks  take  and  the  less  we  give,  the 
better  for  every  one  of  us  in  the  long  run. — There, 
now,  Lizzie,  didn't  I  telljou  not  to  bite  that  apple?" 

But  Lizzie,  with  a  disobedience  that  might  have 
been  expected  of  her  even  sooner  than  it  occurred, 
had  bitten  the  apple  several  times.  Being  now  both 
shaken  and  cuffed  by  her  mother,  she  choked  from  a 
morsel  of  the  fruit  and  turned  purple  in  the  face. 
Then  Mrs.  Giebelhouse  shrieked,  with  alarm,  her  rage 
(she  never  struck  her  child  without  rage,  either  in 
public  or  private)  fluttering  away  into  a  very  hys- 
teria of  solicitude  .  .  . 

"  What  a  visit!  "  exclaimed  Dora,  after  Lizzie  had 
recovered,  and  mother  and  child  had  brought  relief, 
by  their  departure.  "I  rather  guess  Aunt  Ida's 
tongue  would  wag  like  mad  if  anyone  else  came 
lugging  such  a  vixen  of  a  child  to  Ijer  house." 

"  She's  'cute  as  she  can  be,  though,  in  some  things," 
Eunice  said,  musingly.  Annette  gave  Dora  a  plain- 
tive glance,  at  this,  and  the  latter  said,  with  brisk 
denial : 

"About  marriage,  Eunice?  Why,  it  made  me 
shiver  to  hear  her  talk !  What  she  said  might  be  true 
enough  if  there  was  no  such  thing  as  love  between 


112  WOMEN  MUST  WEEP 


husband  and  wife.  But  it's  just  that  very  love  that 
makes  all  the  difference." 

"  It  ought  to,"  murmured  Eunice. 

To-day  soon  seemed  as  if  it  were  a  day  of  visits,  for 
in  less  than  an  hour  afterward  Mrs.  Heffernan  ap- 
peared. 

"I'm  so  glad  I  missed  your  Aunt  Ida,"  said  that 
lady,  when  told  who  had  been  there  and  gone.  "  She 
sours  me,  somehow,  just  as  thunder  does  milk." 

"Oh,"  laughed  Dora,  "she's  done  it  already  with 
us.  We're  all  lopid!"  And  then  there  was  a  general 
ripple  of  mirth,  and  Annette  told  about  Lizzie  and 
the  asphyxiating  apple,  with  added  comments  re- 
garding the  matrimonial  views  of  the  departed  guest. 

Eunice  did  not  speak  for  some  time,  and  then  she 
began  quite  suddenly,  inspired  by  that  affection  for 
"Aunt  'Liza"  which  all  the  three  sisters  had  felt 
since  childhood,  but  which  had  increased  markedly 
since  their  father's  death. 

"I'm  going  to  say  something  right  out  to  you," 
Aunt  'Liza,"  were  Eunice's  first  words,  "and  some- 
thing that,  perhaps,  it  might  be  thought  better  taste 
if  I  kept  to  myself.  But  I  can't  help  whether  it's 
better  taste  or  not.  Yesterday  my  husband  aston- 
ished me  very  much  by  telling  me  that  he'd  bought 
pa's  business  with  money  borrowed  from  .  .  from 
Uncle  Andrew."  After  this  Eunice  went  on  with  can- 
dor just  rude  enough  not  to  be  offensive,  lapsing 
thence  into  a  straightforward  tale  of  her  own  wrongs 
and  the  conditions  of  reconciliation  that  she  had  im- 
posed. 

Mrs.  Heffernan  listened  with  great  attention,  and 
at  length  solemnly  spoke.  "My  dear  Eunice,"  she 
said,  "It  won't  do  at  all.  You  can't  drive  a  man  like 


WOMEN  MUST  WEEP  113 


that.  Of  course,  some  men  are  sheep ;  but  take  my 
word  for  it,  there's  more  o'  the  lion— and  the  tiger, 
too — in  most  of  'em.  Nine  out  of  ten  of  the  wives 
known  to  you  and  I  as  what  they  call  'ruling'  their 
husbands,  do  it  (when  they  do  really  do  it,  which - 
ain't  often )  by  up-and-down  humbug  and  deceit.  I 
tell  ye  what  it  is,"  Mrs.  Heffernan  pursued  warming 
to  her  subject,  "we  women  mostly  marry  with  all 
the  odds  o'  happiness  against  us,  and  when  they  turn 
in  our  favorit's  because  we've  got  hold,  by  goodluck, 
of  a  man  that's  a  trump.  But  trumps  are  scarce  cards 
in  the  game  o'  husbands.  Many  a  good  man  is  a 
brute  in  his  own  home,  and  yet  would  think  you  crazy 
if  you  called  him  one.  The  fact  is,  they  can't  see,  and 
they  won't  be  taught  to  see,  that  if  we're  weak  in  the 
things  they're  strong  in,  it's  because  they're  weak  in 
the  things  we're  strong  in.  It  ain't  so  long  ago  that 
we  were  their  slaves,  mind,  and  they  ain't  forgot  it 
yet.  You  can  often  try  to  fool  'em  and  they'll  see  the 
trick  and  make  out  they  don't;  but  meet  'em  square 
and  tell  'em  what  you  think  your  rights  are,  pointing 
out  the  wlry's  and  the  wherefore's,  and  they'll  either 
turn  round  and  hate  ye,  or  else  they'll  hit  back  so 
hard  and  savage  that  you'll  have  one  out  o'  two 
choices — to  knock  under  or  to  live  in  purgatory."  .  .  . 
Later  that  same  day,  Eunice  compared  the  creeds 
of  her  two  aunts.  Altogether,  she  thought,  there 
was  more  truth  in  that  of  Mrs.  Giebelhouse,  though 
she  was  far  from  agreeing  with  it  wholly.  As  for 
the  step  she  had  taken,  she  still  felt  fixed  in  her  intent 
not  to  recede  from  it.  When  her  husband  came  home 
that  afternoon  she  had  made  up  her  mind  to  break 
the  unnatural  silence  between  them,  and  speak.  But 
as  it  turned  out,  he  spared  her  the  pains.  He  chose 

to  speak  first. 
8 


IX 

Eunice  entered  their  little  front  parlor  as  she  heard 
his  steps.  The  bland  November  day  was  dying  out- 
side in  hazy  glimmers.  Annette  had  gone  on  some 
household  errand ;  Catharine  was  rooms  away,  in 
the  kitchen,  preparing  dinner.  As  Eunice  stood  and 
looked  at  Legree  unbutton  his  overcoat  and  throw  it 
across  a  chair,  the  stillness  weighed  upon  her  oppres- 
sively. Words  trembled  on  her  lips,  and  she  was 
about  to  utter  them,  when  he  suddenly  faced  her, 
shot  into  her  eyes  one  of  his  bright,  hard  looks  and 
said: 

"I  hope  you're  over  your  tantrum,  It's  about  time 
you  came  to  your  senses." 

Eunice  started,  and  then  slightly  shuddered.  "I 
think  just  as  I  thought,  Austin,"  she  said,  "and  feel 
just  as  I  felt."  She  lifted  her  hand  and  pointed  to  the 
wofully  daubed  portrait  of  her  late  father.  "In  his 
presence,"  she  continued,  "  I  insist  that  you " 

"  Let  up  on  that  nonsense,"  he  broke  in.  His  voice 
rose  higher,  and  his  manner  breathed  electric  energy, 
but  he  did  not  seem  angered  in  the  least. 

"  It  isn't  nonsense,"  Eunice  said.     "  I " 

"Look  here:  you're  my  wife,  and  Is 'pose  you  want 


WOMEN  MUST  WEEP  115 

to  live  on  good  terms  with  me  as  such.  Now  you 
can't  do  it  by  any  flummery  of  this  kind.  You've  got 
to  just  pull  those  horns  of  yours  right  in — right  in, 
d'ye  understand  ?"  He  had  drawn  quite  close  to  her 
as  he  thus  spoke.  "  I  \vant  no  more  of  these  airs  and 
I  won't  have  'em.  You  must  behave  like  a  woman, 
and  not  like  an  over-grown  child." 

'  'It's  because  I  wish  to  be  a  woman,  Austin,  that 
I've  taken  this  course." 

"Taken  this  course!  What  the  devil  do  you  mean 
by  such  impudence  ?  You  might  as  well  try  to  push 
this  house  into  the  middle  of  the  street  with  the  tip 
of  your  parasol  as  to  budge  me  one  inch  by  your 
highfalutin  talk." 

"Very  well,"  said  Eunice.  "Then  I  won't  make 
the  effort." 

"Explain  yourself,"    he  ordered.      "If  you  won't 
make  the  effort  to  browbeat  me  and  play  the  high 
and  mighty  with  me,  what  will  you  do  ?     Behave* 
like    a     sensible     woman     and    stop    playing   silly 
capers?" 

"You  cast  a  shameful  slur  upon  my  dear  father," 
said  Eunice. 

"Don't  lie,"  he  retorted,  cool  as  steel.  "I  liked 
your  father  and  he  liked  me.  What  I  said  about  him 
is  true  enough,  though,  and  many  a  better  man 
than  him  has  deserved  to  be  called  an  old  fool. 
Make  sure  of  this,  my  lady :  you'll  hear  a  good  sight 
worse  from  me  if  you're  not  careful  how  you  cheek 
me." 

"I've  .  .  I've  .  .just  heard  you  tell  me  not  to  7/e," 
gasped  Eunice.  "That's  worse  than  I  ever  dreamed 
I  should  hear  from  you." 

"  Is  it  ?  Then  you'll  have  to  live  and  learn.    You're 


116  WOMEN  MUST  WEEP 

not  going  to  be  handled  with  kid  gloves  while  j^ou're 
By  wife ;  don't  make  any  mistake  there  I " 

"I— I  must  and  shall  have  respectful  treatment  from 
you." 

"Oh,  bosh!  I  shan't  trim  my  words  to  suit  your 
fads  and  fancies.  You'll  take  me  as  you  find  me." 

"I  find  you  abusive,  outrageous.  I  won't  take  you 
that  way." 

"Yes,  you  shall,  if  I  choose  to  make  you,"  he  an- 
swered, with  a  voice  whose  harshness  was  not  paral- 
leled by  any  other  she  had  known  to  leave  his  lips. 
"You  can  lord  it  as  you  like  over  your  sisters,  but 
you'll  bark  the  wrong  tree  if  you  expect  to  play 
me  in  the  same  style." 

He  smiled  as  he  spoke,  and  Eunice  dropped  her  eyes 
an  instant  before  the  bloodless  bravado  of  that  smile. 
Then,  raising  them,  she  sought  to  answer  that  she 
would  either  be  his  wife  in  the  just  and  true  sense  or 
that  she  would  live  with  him  no. longer. 

But  somehow,  looking  into  his  pitiless  face,  she 
could  not  pronounce  the  words.  Not  that  she  feared 
to  do  so,  but  that  to  do  so  would  be  to  hint  a  rup- 
ture that  was  horrible.  She  was  planting  her  foot, 
poor  Eunice,  on  a  path  which  many  another  woman 
has  trod— many  another  woman,  too,  with  all  her 
courage,  all  her  hate  of  yokedom  and  mastership. 
It  was  because  she  had  loved  this  man  that  she  had 
married  him,  and  though  the  tenderness  and  romance 
with  which  her  sex  delight  to  clothe  their  love  was 
already  shrivelling  in  the  blast  of  dire  discovery,  the 
love  itself  staid  proof  against  such  onslaught.  She 
perceived  this  truth  then,  in  a  moment  of  exquisite 
and  racking  pain.  Legree  had  turned  her  captor  and 
shook  her  chains,  as  if  to  attest  it,  boldly  beneath 


WOMEN  MUST  WEEP  117 

her  eyes.  But  she  might  loosen  those  chains  if  she 
could  not  break  them.  She  was  not  helpless  in  his 
hands.  It  flashed  through  her  mind  that  the  Heffer- 
nans  would  help  her  if  she  chose  to  ask  their  aid, 
and  that  dependence  on  them  need  not  ensue.  But 
there  was  the  new,  sudden  satire  of  her  position, — 
like  an  abrupt-seen  sneer  on  the  sphinx-lips  of  des- 
tiny. To  defy  him  she  must  leave  him;  and  to  leave 
him,  frightfully  though  his  very  presence  exhaled  dis- 
appointment, would  be  anguish  that  she  had  no  hardi- 
hood to  confront. 

It  was  a  ghastly  lesson  for  a  spirit  like  hers.  But 
the  swift  and  fateful  minutes  taught  it  her  as  she 
stood  there  speechless  at  his  side.  Some  hours  come 
to  us  armed  with  those  white-hot  brands  for  our 
souls  which  sear  them  so  deeply  that  the  scars  grow 
a  part  of  what  they  stamp.  Such  an  hour  had  come 
to  Eunice  now.  She  let  herself  slowly  sink  into  a 
chair,  while  her  hands  met  in  a  tense  clutch. 

"Austin,"  she  said,  "I  thought  you  cared  for  me." 

From  her  own  point  of  view  this  was  about  as 
weak  as  anything  she  could  have  uttered.  She  saw 
his  smile  deepen,  and  soften  likewise.  •  Then  she  burst 
into  tears,  and  as  she  strove  to  dry  her  streaming 
eyes  he  came  up  to  her  and  put  his  hand  on  her  head. 

"Why,  certainly  I  care  for  you,"  he  answered. 
"You'll  find  me  as  good  a  husband  as  they  make  'em, 
Eunice.  But  you  must  remember  to  be  a  woman— a 
real  womanly  woman — and  not  a  vixen  or  a  shrew." 

Then  he  kissed  her,  once  on  the  forehead,  and  again 
(while  she  raised  her  head  and  looked  at  him  with  a 
great  wistfulness)  full  on  the  lips.  He  had  a  perfectly 
secure  sense  of  conquest  now,  and  he  covertly  tingled 
with  it.  He  had  not  believed  that  she  would  be  so 


118  WOMEN  MUST  WEEP 

docile,  but  lie  had  meant  to  crush  her,  sooner  or 
later,  all  the  same.  Of  course,  he  already  told  him- 
self, this  was  not  the  end  with  her;  she  would  break 
out  again.  And  while  he  stood  beside  her  and  stroked 
her  hair  or  held  her  hand,  talking  in  a  placated 
strain  what  was  really  the  most  insolent  egotism 
and  condescension  mingled,  he  felt  a  sort  of  regret 
that  the  tussel  had  not  proved  a  tougher  one— that 
he  had  not  been  called  upon  to  show  his  powers  of 
discipline  and  coercion  in  all  their  handsome  en- 
tirety. .  .  . 

Eunice  amazed  her  sisters  by  her  new  submissive- 
ness.  At  first  it  seemed  to  them  that  the  change  had 
a  suspicious  origin,  as  though  thrills  of  physical 
fear  might  have  wrought  it.  After  a  while  they 
grew  more  accustomed  to  it,  however,  and  Dora,  for 
one,  declared  that  it  was  a  blessing.  But  Annette 
shook  her  head;  she  saw  more  than  Dora  did,  and 
doubtless  was  reluctant  to  tell  quite  everything  that 
she  saw.  Still,  she  was  frank  enough,  except  through 
a  fear  of  distressing  her  listener;  and  now,  as  weeks 
lapsed  along,  there  seemed  the  sweetest  and  yet  most 
potent  of  reasons  why  her  listener  should  not  be  dis- 
tressed. 

"Yes,  Dora,"  Annette  said  one  day  when  they  were 
together,  "it's  true  that  Eunice  and  Austin  get  along 
peaceably.  But  he  is  very  harsh  with  her  quite 
often." 

"Harsh,  Annette?  " 

"  Oh,  yes.  For  instance,  he  came  in  a  day  or  two 
ago  with  wet  feet.  It  had  been  raining  horridly — 
you  remember.  He  wanted  to  change  his  shoes  and 
stockings,  and  warm  his  feet  at  the  fire.  But  there 
wasn't  any  fire  except  the  one  in  the  kitchen  range ; 


WOMEN  MUST  WEEP  119 

you  know  how  it  is  here,  we've  got  the  grate  in  the 
parlor,  but  we  seldom  have  a  fire  in  it  unkss  the 
weather  suddenly  starts  up  very  cold  indeed  before 
the  steam-heater  has  been  set  going.  And  you  reco- 
lect  how  warm  it  got  to  be  when  that  heavy  rain 
came  on.  The  steam-heater  was  just  luke-warm. 
Austin  wouldn't  try  that  for  his  feet,  and  he  wouldn't 
go  into  the  kitchen.  It  was  altogether  below  him  to 
go  into  the  kitchen,  and  he  made  this  plain  to  Eunice 
in  a  few  cold,  sharp  words.  Catharine  was  out,  and 
he  wanted  a  fire  made  in  the  grate.  To  do  that,  coal 
and  wood  had  to  be  fetched,  and  Eunice  told  him  so. 
'Then  go  and  get  both,'  he  said;  but  Eunice  ob- 
jected. He  didn't  show  any  temper;  he  never  does. 
But  he  said  to  her  in  a  tone  that  made  me  shiver ', 
Dora — '  All  right ;  get  a  scuttle,  go  to  the  bin  there 
back  of  the  kitchen,  and  fill  it  with  coal  and  wood, 
then  build  a  fire  as  quick  as  you  can.' " 

"  Oh,  Annette,"  said  Dora,  "  and  did  Eunice  go?  " 

"  Yes,  but  I  went  with  her.  I  helped  her  get  the 
fuel  and  I  helped  her  make  the  fire.  He  didn't  like  me 
to  interfere  one  bit,  I  could  see  that.  But  he  said 
nothing  rude  to  me.  He  never  does,  and  sometimes 
he's  very  sociable.  I  don't  belong  to  him  as  Eunice 
does." 

''And  after  you'd  made  the  fire  for  his  majesty," 
scowled  Dora,  "  didn't  he  thank  you?  " 

"He  said,  '  Ah,  that's  better  '—nothing  more.  Then 
afterward  he  added  to  me:  '  You  needn't  have  both- 
ered yourself, '  quite  kindly.  But  when  the  fire  had 
got  well  started  he  went  up  to  Eunice  and  gave  her  a 
little  swinging  shake  of  the  hand,  always  with  that 
self-satisfied  smile  on  the  lips,  like  a  strict  school- 
master's to  a  bad  child.  Oh,  how  I  do  hate  that 


120  WOMEN  MUST  WEEP 

smile.  You  never  see  it.  It's  only  before  her  that  he 
ever  smiles  that  way." 

"  And  Eunice  never  flares  up  at  him?  She  stands  it 
all?  How  strange! " 

"  She  doesn't  dare  not  stand  it,  Dora.  She's  afraid 
to  make  a  fuss.  Oh,  I've  watched! " 

"Afraid?  Eunice  afraid?  " 

"Yes.  And  do  you  know  why?  If  there  should 
be  a  big  fight  it  might  end  in  their  separation." 

"  Well,"  said  Dora,  with  a  toss  of  the  head.  "  And 
s 'pose it  did!" 

"It  would  break  Eunice's  heart.  She's  thought 
those  chances  out.  She  loves  him.  She  can't  help 
going  on  loving  him.  I  guess  there  must  be  a  good 
many  -wives  like  that.  I  never  had  the  least  idea  of 
it  till  lately,  but  now  I  begin  to  understand  how 
hundreds  and  thousands  of  tormented  women,  Dora, 
may  he  dragging  their  weary  days  along  in  this 
weary  world!" 

"It's  a  very  pleasant  world  for  me,"  said  Dora. 
"  Harvey's  always  just  lovely,  as  you  know.  But  if 
he  carried  on  like  Austin,  I — I'd  leave  him,  love  or  no 
love.  Yes,  I  would,  though  I  haven't  got  half  the 
spunk  and  grit  that  Eunice  has  or  rather  used  to 
have!" 

"You're  very  happy,  Dora,"  said  Annette,  ferv- 
ently. "And  I'm  so  glad  you  are!  It  cheers  me 
when  I  think  of  Eunice's  lot." 

Of  late,  indeed,  Dora  had  felt  specially  called  upon 
to  be  thankful.  When  the  winter  had  first  set  in, 
Kinnicutt  had  sighed  over  the  paucity  of  dollars  that 
he  was  enabled  to  earn.  But  latterly  his  affairs  had 
altered,  and  he  was  now  in  better  case. 

Never  an  able  writer,  his  glibness,  mixed  with  a 


WOMEN  MUST  WEEP  121 


certain  slangy  and  facetious  epigram,  had  pleased 
one  of  the  sub-editors  of  the  "  Morning  Monitor ',"  a 
newspaper  which  had  won  success.  One  day  he  dis- 
covered that  the  son  of  the  editor-in-chief,  a  Mr. 
Gordon  Ammidown,  had  been  his  classmate  in  col- 
lege. This  was  blithe  news  for  Kinnicutt,  who  at 
once  felt  that  his  fortunes  might  now  be  bettered. 
He  sought  the  younger  Ammidown  at  the  editorial 
office  of  his  father,  but  learned  that  he  was  ill.  Not 
seriously  ill,  the  tidings  ran,  but  kept  in  his  room  for 
a  few  days.  Later  the  two  ex-classmates  met,  and 
Gordon  Ammidown  was  very  civil.  He  did  not  look 
as  if  he  had  been  ill,  and  svhen  Kinnicutt,  with  a 
look  of  surprise  at  his  ruddy  face,  told  him  so,  he 
said  lightly  that  his  trouble  had  been  "  only  a  touch 
of  rheumatism,"  and  at  once  changed  the  subject. 
In  a  way  these  two  young  men  had  been  somewhat 
intimate  at  their  city  college,  but  Gordon  Ammidown 
had  shone  as  a  scholar  far  beyond  Dora's  husband. 
By  a  certain  social  superiority,  too,  Ammidown  had 
made  himself  felt,  though  not  snobbishly  in  the  least. 
His  father  had  been  a  prominent  New  Yorker,  fiercely 
opposed  to  the  kind  of  politics  in  which  Andrew 
Heffernan  was  immersed,  and  conspicuous  a  few  years 
ago  in  the  legislature  of  the  state.  The  very  name 
of  Simeon  Ammidown  had  acted  as  a  sort  of  terror, 
at  one  time,  upon  his  foes  in  municipal  schemes  and 
frauds.  Drifting  into  a  high-salaried  place  on  the 
Monitor,  he  had  ultimately  bought  that  journal  and 
assumed  full  control  of  it.  He  was  a  man  of  singu- 
lar personal  mildness,  and  seriously  to  talk  with  him 
•was  to  admit  the  force  of  his  intellect,  if  sometimes 
to  recoil  with  keen  dissent  from  his  opinions.  But 
when  he  took  a  pen  into  his  hand  and  wrote,  this 


122  WOMEN  MUST  WEEP 

mildness  became  acerbity,  and  often  of  the  bitterest 
sort.  Young  Gordon  had  inherited  no  little  of  his 
father's  brains,  and  already  had  achieved  something 
like  repute  among  his  constitutents  in  the  columns 
of  the  Monitor.  Folks  said  of  him  that  he  had  a 
much  kinder  heart  than  his  father ;  and  when  he  had 
whispered  pleasant  prophesies  of  future  augmented 
wage  in  the  ear  of  his  former  co-disciple,  Kinnicutt 
went  home  full  of  rainbow  expectancy  to  his  wife. 

"  Don't  you  see  how  set  up  I  am,  Dor  ?  "  he  said,  as 
he  kissed  her.  "  Don't  I  look  like  a  man  who's  struck 
a  lucky  number  in  the  Louisiana  lottery  ?  " 

"You  always  come  to  me  cheerful  and  jolly,  Har- 
vey," replied  Dora,  as  she  returned  his  kiss.  "I'd 
pretty  soon  put  you  through  a  course  of  sprouts  if 

you  had  moods  and  airs  like " 

11  Austin  Legree?"  he  laughed,  as  she  paused. 
They  had  talked  over  Eunice's  troubles  together. 
"Well,  Austin  's  got  his  good  points.  I  won't  go 
back  on  him.  He  wants  to  have  his  own  way  in  his 
own  house.  Every  sensible  man  does.  They're  not 
all  such  geese  as  I  am." 

"No,  thank  the  Lord,"  said  Dora,  while  she  stealth- 
ily untied  his  cravat,  which  had  for  her  an  unsatis- 
factory droop,  and  then  re-tied  it  with  great  linger- 
ing delay.  And  soon,  while  she  gave  the  curls  at 
either  of  his  temples  a  little  double  caress,  just  as  a 
fond  mother  might  have  done  to  the  locks  of  her 
cherished  boy.  "  Things  would  be  topsy-turvy  if  all 
husbands  were  petted  and  made  such  geese  of  as  I 
make  of  you!"  she  said  .  .  .  "And  so  you've  invited 
this  young  fellow  to  come  and  spend  the  evening 
with  us,  Harv?  Gracious!  I.."  And  here  she 
drooped  her  head  on  his  shoulder  with  a  tremulous 
laugh. 


WOMEN  MUST  WEEP  123 


He  patted  her  neck  while  he  answered,  merrily: 
"  You're  the  goose  now,  Dora.  Why  you're  as  well  as 
you  ever  were,  and  look  prettier.  The  idea  of  such 
nonsense." 

"  No,  it  isn't  nonsense,  Harvey ;  I  don't  feel  like  en- 
tertaining persons.  I  ..." 

"There  needn't  be  anybody  but  Austin  and  Eunice 
and  Annette." 

"  Perhaps  we  might  ask  the  Plimpsolls,"  Dora  said 
after  a  silence.  "  We  took  tea  with  them,  you  know, 
the  other  Sunday." 

"  All  right.    And  the  Heffernans  .  .  why  not  ?  " 

"Dear,  kind  Aunt  'Liza!  But  then  there's  Uncle 
Andrew.  Still,  perhaps  he  won't  come." 

Kinnicutt  frowned  gently.  "You  oughtn't  to  feel 
that  way  about  Andrew  Heffernan,  Dor." 

"  No ;  you're  right.  If  pa  knew  how  that  man  has 
treated  us  he  wouldn't  object,  would  he  ?  .  .  And 
Harv.,  I  tell  you  .  ."  She  put  a  hand  on  each  of  his 
shoulders  and  beamed  up  into  his  face.  "We'll  have 
some  punch.  I'll  get  it  made  at " 

"Punch,"  he  struck  in,  with  mock  horror.  "Oh, 
don't !  I  never  hear  the  word  without  I  think  of  our 
wedding-day  and  that  awful  empty  bowl  in  the 
back  parlor?" 


But  Dora,  in  her  invitation  to  the  Plimpsolls,  men- 
tioned a  glass  of  punch  as  the  prospective  refresh- 
ment of  the  evening.  And  in  doing  so  she  did  not 
count  upon  the  disarray  which  her  little  note  would 
effect. 

"A  glass  of  punch?"*  said  Mr.  Plimpsoll  plaintively, 
when  his  wife  had  read  aloud  to  him  Dora's  note. 
"You  know  I  might  just  as  well  take  poison,  Rhoda." 

"  Oh,  you  needn't  take  it,  Ezra.  We  can  just  drop 
in  for  an  hour  or  so  next  Wednesday." 

"If  I'm  spared  till  then,"  muttered  her  husband, 
•who  had  just  come  in  from  a  long  walk  and  looked 
in  the  full  bloom  of  virile  vigor. 

"Spared,  Ezra!"  shuddered  Mrs.  Plimpsoll,  who 
could  never  get  used  to  his  sepulchral  allusions. 
"Why,  what  do  you  mean?" 

"Oh,  nothing,"  he  replied. 

She  flew  to  his  side  the  next  instant  and  put  her  frail 
arm  about  his  bulky  shoulder.  "  Tell  me,  Ezra,  she 
pleaded.  "You  was  so  well  when  you  went  out. 
What  is  it?" 

Thus  implored,  Mr.  Plimpsoll  consented  to  answer. 
"I've  got  heart  disease,  Rhoda.  There's  no  mistake 


WOMEN  MUST  WEEP  125 


this  time.  I  was  passing  along  Broadway,  there  by 
Bryant  Park  this  morning,  when  the  pain  took  me. 
It  .  .  ."  And  then  the  pain  was  described  in  thrilling 
detail. 

"Nonsense,"  cried  his  wife  when  he  had  finished. 
She  was  secretly  ver}-  much  alarmed,  as  she  could 
never  help  being  when  any  new  revelation  like  this 
was  made  to  her,  but  she  would  not  have  shown  her 
fear  for  the  \vorld.  "Why,  that  sort  of  thing  is  noth- 
ing but  dyspepsia." 

"Dyspepsia,  is  it?"  said  Ezra  Plimpsoll  with  sombre 
irony.  "  I  only  wish  it  was !" 

"Now,  Ezra,"  began  his  wife,  braced,  as  it  were,  for 
the  role  of  consoler,  "I've  had  exactly  the  pain  you 
describe  fifty  times  if  I've  had  it  once.  Why,  the  other 
day,  when  I  was  shopping  in  at  Altaian's,  it  came  on 
so  awfully  that  I  thought  I'd  have  to  scream  out.  > 
And  then  I  remembered  the  buckwheat-cakes  I'd  eaten 
that  morning.  You  know,  Ezra,  we  had  buckwheat 
cakes  this  morning,  and  you  ate  quite  a  number." 

"  I  didn't  know  you  kept  such  a  sharp  watch  on  my 
appetite,"  he  said  coldly.  "  Perhaps  'twould  be  well 
if  you  made  the  best  of  your  present  chances,  as 
they're  not  likely  to  last  long."  The  doleful  inuendo 
conveyed  by  those  final  words  had  not  at  all  an  un- 
familiar sound  to  poor  little  Mrs.  Plimpsoll ;  but  it 
made  her  inwardly  quake,  nevertheless. 

Dissolution  spared  its  threatened  victim  until  next 
Wednesday,  however,  and  then  he  decided  to  go  to 
the  Kinnicutts',  as  his  wife  had  written  that  their 
coming  would  be  provisional  upon  the  health  of  her 
husband.  But  a  little  while  before  they  started  from 
their  home  in  Harlem,  Mr.  Plimpsoll  was  seized  with 
another  "feeling,"  and  all  through  the  journey  his 


126  WOMEN  MUST  WEEP 

wife  kept  doling  out  comfort  to  him  in  such  words  as 
these  : 

"Why,  I've  had  t/zatmore  times  than  I've  got  fingers 
and  toes !  Mercy,  yes !  Let  me  see ;  when  did  I  have 
it  last?  Oh,  yes;  only  Sunday.  Why,  it's  nothing  at 
all.  Everybody  has  it,  now  and  then !  " 

"Oh,  it's  merely  one  more  warning,"  said  Mr. 
Plimpsoll,  in  a  funereal  bleat  that  contrasted  some- 
what ill  with  his  bright  eye  and  ruddy  cheek.  And 
although  the  poor  little  worried  soul  who  sat  in  the 
Elevated  at  his  side  studied  how  she  should  respond 
with  a  skeptical  laugh,  her  heart  began  to  throb 
again  and  she  made  up  her  mind  that  she  would  pay 
a  secret  visit  to-morrow  on  the  particular  physician 
whom  her  husband  was  just  then  consulting,  and  ask 
him  if  he  really  thought  Ezra's  "feelings  "  were  "  all 
nervousness,"  as  he  had  cheered  her  not  long  since  by 
stating.  When  they  got  into  Dora's  bright-lighted 
little  rooms,  the  spirits  of  the  death-menaced  Ezra 
lost  their  gloom,  and  he  quaffed  several  glasses  of 
punch  to  the  mingled  pleasure  and  dread  of  his  wife. 
She  was  charmed  to  see  him  get  out  of  his  vapors,  but 
realized  that  the  escape  was  too  sadly  temporary,  and 
behind  it  lurked*  a  morbid  to-morrow  that  would  try 
cruelly  her  already  hard-strained  nerves.  And  yet  it 
was  very  pleasant  for  Mrs.  Plimpsoll  to  be  there  with 
her  three  kinswomen,  and  to  tell  herself  how  mar- 
riage had  oddly  altered  Eunice,  taking  down  her  color 
a  little  and  giving  her  a  milder  manner  and  perhaps 
a  rather  less  assertive  form  of  speech ;  how  Dora, 
with  her  debonair  smile  and  her  shy  morsel  of  confi- 
dence so  delicately  murmured,  was  interesting bej^ond 
words  ;  and  how  Annette  had  shot  up  so  magically 
of  late  into  the  most  winsome  of  slender,  dark-eyed 
girls. 


WOMEN  MUST  WEEP  127 

Eunice  had  given  a  few  fond  touches  to  Annette's 
costume,  that  evening,  before  they  went  together  into 
the  rear  flat  where  Dora  and  Kinnicutt  waited  their 
guests.  This  Gordon  Ammidown,  who  had  lately 
helped  Kinnicutt  so  kindly  on  the  staff  of  his  father's 
newspaper,  struck  Eunice  as  a  fine  potential  match 
for  Annette.  Dora  had  reported  how  clever  and  nice- 
looking  a  young  man  he  was  from  the  point-of-view  of 
Harvey;  and  the  fact  of  his  being  Simon  Ammidown's 
only  son  made  both  married  sisters  augur  merrily 
concerning  his  possible  enslavement  when  their  darl- 
ing Annette  should  dawn  upon  him. 

"  My !"  Annette  had  laughed.  "  As  if  such  a  great 
big  stylish  person  as  that  would  look  at  poor  me !  .  . 
Besides,"  she  added  demurely,  "  I  might  not  take  the 
least  fancy  to  him ;  and  if  he  was  hung  all  over  with 
diamonds  and  I  didn't  care  for  him,  that  would  just 
settle  matters  with  me  /" 

The  Heffernans  came,  and  they,  with  thePlimpsolls, 
completed  the  little  party.  Aus tin  Legree,  clear-faced, 
with  his  trim  moustache  and  metallic  eyes,  almost 
rayed  forth  genialty.  Eunice  watched  her  husband 
and  wondered  what  furtive  deadening  spell  there  was 
for  him  in  the  air  of  his  own  home.  Heffernan,  hag- 
gard and  gloomy  as  usual,  made  efforts  to  talk  and 
ended  each  effort  in  dismal  failure.  Aunt  'Liza  shot 
toward  him  a  nervous  though  veiled  glance  now  and 
then,  conscious  of  a  new  mental  worriment  that 
vexed  him  sorely. 

Gordon  Ammidown,  the  guest  of  the  evening,  was 
meanwhile  pleasing  everybody.  He  made  it  plain 
that  he  was  one  or  two  social  grades  above  his  sur- 
roundings, and  yet  his  air  could  not  well  have  been 
more  modest  and  sincere.  He  was  just  tall  enough 


128  WOMEN  MUST  WEEP 

to  suit  his  athletic  build,  and  had  a  face  at  once  win- 
some and  intelligent,  with  close-cropped  auburn  hair 
and  a  sparse,  crinkled  growth  of  the  same  hue  on 
lips,  cheeks  and  chin.  He  looked  like  a  handsome 
young  Austrian,  and  was  clad  in  the  evening- costume 
that  is  not  preferred  of  Seventh  avenue  society, 
though  his  neck-tie  was  black. 

"You  just  ought  to  set  your  cap  for  him,1'  whis- 
pered Mrs.  Plimpsoll  to  Annette.  "  Ain't  he  real  styl- 
ish, though?  And  he  talks  likeareg'lar  Englishman, 
don't  he?" 

Ammidown  did  not  talk  like  an  Englishman,  but 
his  tones  were  not  at  all  nasal  and  his  accent  was 
that  of  culture.  If  he  felt  himself  out  of  his  element 
he  had  the  tact  not  to  show  it.  When  the  punch  was 
handed  round  he  refused  to  take  any,  and  just  as 
Kinnicutt  surprisedly  asked  him  why,  Mr.  Heffernan, 
\vho  had  arrived  with  his  wife  but  a  few  minutes 
ago,  came  forward  at  Legree's  side,  as  though  to  be 
presented  to  the  distinguished  editor's  son. 

"Oh,  I'm  taking  nothing  of  that  sort  just  now," 
said  Ammidown,  in  a  careless  tone.  .  At  this  moment 
his  eye  caught  Heffernan's  and  the  two  scanned  one 
another's  faces.  Ammidown  receded  a  step  or  two, 
and  his  color  changed.  Kinnicutt,  whose  back  was 
partially  turned,  saw  nothing.  Legree  saw,  and 
fancied  that  the  liquor-dealer,  whose  past  and  present 
were  botn  plunged  in  the  soilure  of  municipal  poli- 
tics, had  been  recognized  by  this  young  man  whose 
father  had  for  years  poured  the  hot-shot  of  his  con- 
tempt on  bosses  and  "rings."  In  another  moment, 
however,  Kinnicutt  turned  and  introduced  his  friend 
to  the  uncle  of  his  wife.  They  shook  hands,  and 
while  they  did  so  Legree  thought  he  detected  on  the 


WOMEN  MUST  WEEP  129 

lips  of  the  younger  man  a  faint  satiric  smile.  It  was 
not  long  after  this  that  Ammidown  found  occasion 
swiftly  to  murmur  in  Heffernan's  ear : 

"  I  hope  you'll  say  nothing  to  anybody." 

"  Me?  No,"  was  the  reply.  "  What  do  I  want  to 
talk  for?" 

"  Thank  you.    And  .  .  you  promise,  eh  ?  " 

"Oh,  yes." 

"Thank  you,  again  ..."  Gradually  loudening  his 
voice,  Ammidown  went  on :  "So  there's  every  chance 
of  a  dark  horse  winning  at  the  next  presidential  con- 
vention, Mr.  Heffernan?" 

"I  guess  so;  it  looks  that  way,"  Heffernan  said. 
"  You  see,  the  last  state  elections,  with  what  stories 
have  .come  out  since,  made  some  pretty  bad  party- 
splits.  I  don't  believe  they'll  nominate now. 

Things  are  all  against  him." 

"  He's  the  best  man  you've  got,"  said  Ammidown ; 
and  then  with  a  good  deal  of  affable  grace,  seeing 
that  the  serving  of  the  punch  at  a  near  table  had 
caused  all  the  ladies  to  come  and  seat  themselves 
within  sound  of  his  voice,  he  grew  less  downright  in 
tone  and  added  : 

"It's  too  bad  that  such  a  great  country  as  ours 
should  be  drifting  into  this  unhappy  mode  of  treat- 
ment toward  its  worthiest  and  most  prominent  citi- 
zens. They  no  sooner  reach  by  the  aid  of  strong  and 
brilliant  efforts  a  position  that  entitles  them  to  polit- 
ical support  from  those  whose  creeds  and  principles 
correspond  with  their  own,  than  a  swarm  of  jeal- 
ousies rush  upon  them  and  beat  them  back  into  dis- 
couragement and  obscurity.  I  dare  say  it  is  nobody's 
fault  in  particular,  but  the  fault  of  our  whole  repub- 
lican system,  which  for  all  its  virtues  begins  to  fail 


130  WOMEN  MUST  WEEP 

rather  forlornly  in  the  standing  of  certain  larger 
tests." 

"That's  true,"  said  Kinnicutt,  with  a  glance  to 
right  and  left  among  the  auditors  of  this  little  speech, 
as  much  as  to  say,  "  Don't  you  think  my  friend  is  a 
very  fine  fellow  indeed?  "  And  before  Dora's  husband 
could  add  another  word,  Legree,  in  his  crisp  way 
commenced: 

"We  oughtn't  to  have  the  country  turned  upside- 
down  every  four  years  by  these  elections  for  presi- 
dent. If  a  man's  fit  to  govern  us  for  that  time,  he's 
fit  for  a  stay  in  the  White  House  of  ten  years  at 
least." 

"Make  it  six,"  said  Heffernan.  "Ten's  too  much 
like  the  old  king-business  to  suit  American  voters. 
The  will  o'  the  people  gets  restive,  you  know,  if  it's 
kept  too  long  from  working  itself  off  at  the  polls." 

"The  constitution,  as  it  stands,  would  give  us 
every  chance  of  that,"  declared  Gordon  Ammidown. 
"The  will  of  the  people  could  always  speak  plainly 
enough  through  the  voices  of  their  other  elected 
servants." 

"It  don't  speak  very  loud  just  now  in  this  town," 
remarked  Mr.  Plimpsoll,  with  a  laugh  whose  careless 
ring  was  like  balm  to  his  wife's  anxious  heart.  "I 
should  say  that  here,  'pon  my  word,  it  had  grown 
just  now  a  pretty  small  squeak." 

"  You'd  be  quite  right  to  say  so,"  said  Ammidown, 
with  a  side-glance  at  HefFernan.  "  New  York  is  only 
a  shade  better  off  to-day  than  she  was  in  the  time  of 
Tweed."... 

"I  wish  they  -wouldn't  talk  politics,"  murmured 
Annette  to  Eunice.  The  ladies,  all  grouped  together, 
were  holding  their  punch  glasses,  and  sipping  from 
them. 


WOMEN  MUST  WEEP  131 

"Yes,"  replied  Eunice.  "But  what  nice  language 
he  uses,  doesn't  he?  And  isn't  he  dressed  nice?  Austin 
ought  to  have  a  s wallow-tail  coat  like  that.  I  told 
him  so  last  spring;  but  he  said  you  could  always 
hire  one  if  you  wanted  it." 

"My  husband's  got  one,"  said  Mrs.  Plimpsoll. 
"But  I  never  dreamed  he'd  need  it  just  to  come  and 
spend  the  evening,  you  know." 

"  Neither  he  did,"  said  Dora.  "  There  are  some  very 
stylish  gentlemen  in  the  city,  they  say,  that  always 
wear  them  at  dinner." 

"My!"  said  Mrs.  Plimpsoll,  with  a  laugh,  letting 
her  thin  little  body  fall  back  in  the  sofa  \vhere  she 
sat.  "What  a  waste  o'  clean  shirt-bosoms!"  And 
she  leaned  forward  again,  giving  her  glass  of  punch  a 
vigorous  sip. 

"Harvey  says  that  Mr.  Ammidown's  parents  keep 
five  servants,"  Dora  now  announced.  "And  they're 
only  four  in  the  family.  Just  think  of  it!" 
'" They've  got  a  whole  house,  then?"  said  Mrs. 
Plimpsoll.  "  Yes?  Oh,  well,  if  they're  elegant,  high- 
toned  folks,  I  ain't  one  bit  surprised." 

"  Yes,"  young  Ammidown  was  saying,  "my  father 
has  always  been  a  protectionist,  as  you  state.  But 
I'm  not  one,  though  I  belong  to  no  party  \vhatever. 
The  tariff  is  not  only  to  my  mind  a  tax,  but  it's  the 
sort  of  tax  that  nations  always  find  themselves 
burdened  with  after  a  season  of  severe  trouble.  It 
was  laid  upon  us  by  the  war,  and  now  every  possi- 
ble public  reason  for  its  existence  has  passed.  But 
there  are  private  reasons  for  its  existence,  and  these - 
are  by  no  means  to  rock  the  cradle  of  '  infant  indus- 
tries,' but  rather  to  serve  grown-up  and  very  thrifty 
industries  with  costly  meats  on  golden  platters. 


132  WOMEN  MUST  WEEP 

Cliques  prosper  and  the  masses  are  sufferers.  Never 
was  there  a  greater  fallacy  than  the  assertion  that 
taxation  can  create  national  wealth.  It  really  in- 
creases trusts  and  monopolies  alone;  for,  by  raising 
the  prices  of  manufactured  goods,  it  lays  a  veto  on 
their  exportation,  and  compels  those  who  produce 
them  to  rely  solely  on  home-purchases  ..." 

"Dear  me! "  said  Annette  to  Mrs.  Heffernan,  "I 
hope  they  won't  talk  like  that  all  the  evening.  Can't 
you  do  something,  Aunt  'Liza,  to  kind  of  break  them 
apart?  " 

"Yes,"  said  Aunt  'Liza,  amiably.  "  I'll  go  and  tell 
Austin  Legree  how  his  Opaline  Oil  has  helped  your 
Uncle  Andrew's  rheumatism;  "  and,  as  she  rose,  Dora 
was  heard  saying  to  Mrs.  Plimpsoll  and  Eunice: 

"  Isn't  it  too  bad  he  won't  take  any  of  the  punch? 
everybody  else  has  got  a  glass." 

"Never  mind,"  said  Eunice,  \vith  a  touch  of  her  old 
reproving  and  assertive  manner.  "If  he  doesn't  take 
stimulants,  all  the  better.  It  increases  my  respect 
for  him." 

"  Oh,  pooh,"  said  Mrs.  Plimpsoll,  "  I  like  a  man  to 
drink  now  and  then.  I  wish  Ezra  only  would. 
Gracious,"  she  went  on,  closing  her  eyes  for  a  moment 
and  giving  a  trill  of  laughter,  while  her  glass  re- 
mained uplifted  in  one  hand  as  though  it  were  some- 
thing she  both  dreaded  to  hold  and  dreaded  to  drop, 
"that  punch  has  made  me  as  queer!  What  did  you 
put  in  it,  girls?" 

"Harvey  made  it,"  said  Dora.  "I  don't  think  it's 
strong  a' bit.  Now,  Rhoda,"  she  went  on,  "if  it's 
brightened  you  up  we're  so  glad;  because  we  said  be- 
fore you  came  that  you'd  havetosing  us  something." 

"Sing!     Me/"  cried  Mrs.   Plimpsoll.     "My  dear 


WOMEN  MUST  WEEP  133 

child,  you  must  be  crazy!  I  havn't  sang  a  note  in 
ages!" 

"The  piano's  awful,  Annette  says,"  continued 
Dora.  "  We  were  fooled  in  it  when  we  got  it  at  that 
auction,  you  know.  But  still,  I  guess  it  will  do. 
Now  don't  refuse! " 

Mrs.  Plimpsoll  had  no  real  intention  of  refusing. 
To-night  was  a  colorful  one  in  her  grey-toned  life, 
and  to  see  Ezra  "  forgetting  himself"  had  bathed  her 
worried  soul  in  exhilaration.  The  piano  gave  out  an 
alarming  jingle  as  she  swept  her  hands  over  its  keys. 
But  a  superannuated  instrument  suited  the  feeble  and 
husky  voice  of  the  present  performer,  who  knew  none 
but  old-fashioned  songs  in  which  the  moon  was 
called  "pale  Dian  with  her  silver  bow"  and  falling  in 
love  with  a  girl  was  "kneeling  before  her  maiden 
shrine."  Annette  was  in  her  way  a  judge  of  music, 
though  her  two  sisters  decidedly  \vere  not.  She  felt 
more  than  a  suspicion  that  Mr.  Ammidown  was 
also  a  judge,  or  at  least  understood  the  whole  imbecil- 
ity of  the  present  attempt.  For  this  reason  she  had  a 
twinge  of  shame  as  the  young  man  dropped  into  a 
chair  at  her  side.  Would  he  say  anything  in  derision 
of  this  musty  old  ballad  that  Mrs.  Plimpsoll  was 
singing  so  badly?  Annette  hoped  not,  for  the  funny, 
faded  little  cantatrice  was  after  all  her  kinswoman, 
and  she  was  bound  to  stand  up  for  her. 

But  he  refrained  from  any  comment  whatever, 
merely  saying  to  Annette  as  the  last  cracked  note 
quivered  precariously  into  silence : 

"Are  you  musical  at  all  yourself,  Miss  Trask?" 

"Oh,  I  play  a  little,"  she  replied.  And  then,  as  she 
looked  into  his  face,  a  great  dread  assailed  her.  Not 
for  the  world  could  she  let  him  think  that  her  gift, 


134  WOMEN  MUST  WEEP 


slight  though  it  was,  bore  even  faint  resemblance  to 
the  methods  of  Mrs.  Plimpsoll,  And  soon,  in  a  guilty 
murmur,  she  had  told  him  how  painfully  ill  she 
thought  that  lady  had  just  acquitted  herself  and  how 
she  felt  certain,  ever  so  certain,  that  he  was  of  just 
the  same  view. 

Ammidown  looked  into  her  face  and  confessed  to 
her  that  she  was  quite  right.  Then  he  asked  her 
what  sort  of  music  she  played,  and  seemed  pleasur- 
ably  surprised  when  she  told  him  that  a  good  deal  of 
it  was  German.  After  that  the  conversation  somehow 
became  what  Annette  considered  strikingly  personal, 
and  almost  before  she  knew  it  she  had  told  him  her 
age,  where  she  had  gone  to  school,  and  a  number  of 
things  about  herself. 

"You're  different  from  your  sisters,"  he  at  length 
said  to  her,  in  a  musing,  convinced  way,  while  he 
stroked  his  auburn  beard  \vith  a  hand  that  she  had 
already  noticed,  because  though  large  it  had  struck 
her  as  so  shapely  and  white.  "  Yes,  you  and  they  are 
somehow  not  a  bit  alike." 

Annette  frowned  a  little,  at  this,  and  her  disappro- 
bation woke  his  amused  laughter.  "  I  don't  want  to 
seem  different  from  Eunice  and  Dora,"  she  protested. 
"  I  wish  to  be  as  like  them  as  possible." 

"You're  so  fond  of  them,  then?" 

"  Fond  ?"  Her  dark  eyes  swept  his  face  astonishedly. 
"I  adore  them!  Why  shouldn't  I?  We  were  never 
separated  a  single  night  until  they  were  married." 

For  nearly  an  hour  he  and  Annette  talked  together, 
greatly  to  the  satisfaction  ofher  two  elder  sisters.  Once 
Mr.  Plimpsoll  was  about  to  approach  and  address 
him  when  Dora  glided  adroitly  forward  and  prevented 
the  interruption.  Again  Eunice  did  something  simi- 


WOMEN'  MUST  WEEP  135 

lar  in  the  case  of  Kinnicutt,  who  thoughtlessly  drew 
near  Ammidown,  as  if  with  the  intent  of  breaking  in 
upon  his  tete-a-tete. 

"Harvey,"  scolded  Eunice,  though  her  eyes  were 
twinkling,  "how  can  you?  Don't  you  see  that 
Annette's  having  a  splendid  time  ?" 

"Ho,  you  women !"  laughed  Kinnicutt.  "  How  you 
understand  each  other!" 

"  All  kinds  of  things  happen,  you  know,"  said 
Eunice,  with  an  oracular  nod. 

"  You  fancy  him,  then,  eh  ?"  asked  Kinnicutt,  with 
an  air  of  proprietorship  in  his  newly  introduced 
friend,  as  though  he  were  a  recent  purchase,  like  a 
carpet  or  a  dozen  of  spoons. 

"  Fancy  html"  said  Eunice.  "I  think  he's  just  lovely! 
And  I  guess  Annette  does,  too." 

Aunt  'Liza  certainly  did,  and  said  so  to  her  husband 
as  they  journeyed  together  to  their  cross-town  home. 
"I  wish  he'd  take  a  shine  to  Annette,"  she  finished. 

Heffernan,  who  was  about  to  drop  a  dime  into  the 
money-box  of  the  then  conductorless  little  Eighth 
Street  car  that  was  taking  them  over  the  Third 
Avenue  Elevated,  gave  a  sudden  start  and  followed 
it  by  a  hard  stare. 

1 '  Him  ?  "  he  said .    ' '  Annette  marry  him  ? ' ' 

"Why,yes.  .  Why  not?"said  Mrs. Heffernan, totally 
misunderstanding  her  husband.  "I  s'pose  his  folks 
are  pretty  fine,  but  who  cares  for  that?  Annette's  fit 
for  anybody." 

"  Oh,  yes,"  returned  Heffernan.  He  had  an  impulse 
to  say  something  more,  and  controlled  it.  "  After  all," 
passed  through  his  mind,  'why  give  the  chap 
away.  Besides,  I  promised  him.  If  he  really  should 
go  for  the  girl,  'twould  be  a  horse  of  another  color," 


136  WOMEN  MUST  WEEP 

A  deeper  shadow  than  usual  resettled  on  his  face. 
It  was  a  shadow  with  which  his  wife's  eyes  had  late- 
ly grown  familiar,  and  while  the  cars  went  tinkling 
onward  she  quietly  asked : 

"Is  there  any  thing  new,  Andy,  about  that  business 
you  spoke  of  last  night?" 

"No,"  he  replied.  "  But  I  guess  there  may  be  before 
I  turn  in." 

"It's  half-past  eleven  now,"  she  said.  "  How  I  do 
wish  you  could  once  get  to  bed  at  a  decent  hour ! 
Must  you  go  'round  to  the  stores  to-night?" 

At  first  he  simply  gave  a  gloomy  little  grimace  for 
answer  ;  and  then,  as  if  he  were  translating  the 
ungenial  look  into  words 

"Don't  you  know  by  this  time,  'Liza,"  he  said, 
"that  I've  got  to  go  and  drudge  through  the  whole 
infernal  thing  every  night  ? ' ' 

She  sighed  so  loudly  that  he  heard  her  above  the 
noise  of  the  little  car. 

"Can't  you  trust  any  of  your  men,  Andy?  It 
does  seem  too  hard  you  can't." 

"  Trust  'em  ?"  he  said,  with  a  short  laugh,  tired  and 
yet  scornful.  "Why,  if  I  left  the  money  overnight 
with  any  one  of  'em,  locked  up  tight  in  the  drawer 
though  it  is,  I  shouldn't  be  surprised  to  find  it  gone 
to-morrow.  I  guess  you  don't  forget  how  only  last 
year  one  o' the  drawers  was  broke  open  with  jimmies, 
and  the  bartender  laid  it  to  thieves.  I  could  suspect 
as  much  as  I  wanted,  but  there  wasn't  any  proof  to 
make  me  a  whit  the  wiser." 

He  went  the  round  of  three  of  his  saloons  that 
night,  and  got  to  a  fourth,  which  was  nearest  his  up- 
town abode  (on  the  corner  of  Third  avenue,  in  fact, 
and  the  street  which  ran  within  a  few  yards  of  his 


WOMEN  MUST  WEEP  137 

front  windows)  just  a  few  minutes  before  one  o'clock. 
The  shutters  had  been  closed  in  this  establishment, 
and  only  a  thin  seam  of  light  betrayed,  here  and 
there,  that  it  was  occupied.  But  the  commonplace 
defiance  of  the  Excise  Law  was  going  on  here  as  in 
hundreds  of  other  taverns.  Bribed  policemen  passed 
in  brazen  neglect  of  their  duty,  and  sometimes  boldly 
tapped  on  doors  and  windows  for  the  Ganymedes  in- 
side to  come  and  serve  their  Jovian  lips  with  drink. 
Hefferrian  had  only  to  turn  a  knob  and  slip  through 
a  side  entrance  to  find  himself  before  the  scintillant 
glass  and  modish  woodwork  of  his  own  bar.  On 
this  particular  saloon  he  prided  himself— or  rather 
had  once  done  so.  He  had  caused  the  most  drastic 
repairs  to  be  made  in  it,  and  its  marble  floor  and 
ornate  chandeliers  were  even  yet  lauded  in  the  whirl 
of  like  but  emulous  alterations,  for  streets  along  the 
big,  coarse,  clamoring  avenue.  There  had  been  a 
time — and  not  so  long  ago,  either — when  Hefifernan 
held  this  really  handsome  interior  as  the  apple  of  his 
eye,  and  thrilled  with  triumph  to  hear  praises  of  it. 
Now  all  such  feeling  had  changed  with  him;  his 
sense  of  success  was  tinctured  with  a  conscience- 
smitten  disgust.  His  wife's  voice  was  always  call- 
ing in  his  ears,  "  Leave  the  whole  bad  business — leave 
it,  leave  it."  And  of  late  a  new  moral  loathing  had 
begun  within  his  being,  keen  worriment  as  its  result. 
In  the  saloon  a  part  of  the  usual  tragedy  was 
going  on,  with  the  usual  comic  phases.  Two  \vork- 
ingmen  whose  families  were  perhaps  expecting  them 
at  home  and  shivering  at  the  thought  of  their  con- 
tinued absence,  \vere  talking  maudlin  twaddle  over 
their  fresh-filled  glasses  about  the  question  of  social- 
ism. They  were  peaceable  citizens  enough  when 


138  WOMEN  MUST  WEEP 


liquor  had  not  gripped  their  reasons,  but  now  they 
neither  knew  nor  cared  what  mad  stuff  they  babbled. 

"Them  Frenchmen  was  right,"  said  one,  "when 
they  rose  up,  begad,  and  chopped  off  heads  like 
fellers  in  a  poultry-yard  at  Thanksgivin'  times." 

"  Right  ye  are,"  said  the  other.  "The  on'y  trouble 
was  that  they  didn't  chop  off  half  enough.  Fur  I 
tell  you,  sorr,  that  there's  no  hopes  o'  the  sacred 
cause  o'  humanity  in  this  worrld  ontil  Labor  makes 
one  clean  sweep  o'  Capital,  and  .  .  and  .  .  dances  a 
jig— yes,  a  good  old  Irish  jig,  if  ye  please— on  the 
bloody  carcass!" 

Not  far  from  these  two  mild-mannered  rhetoricians, 
were  grouped  a  few  gentlemen  of  much  daintier  garb, 
some  of  whom  wore  dyed  black  moustaches  curled 
at  the  ends,  while  one  or  two  aired  diamonds  of  size 
and  perhaps  price  as  well,  in  shirt-front  or  on  fin- 
gers. Nearly  all  their  faces  wore  a  hardness  that 
spoke  either  in  terms  of  sensualism,  dissipation  or 
both  combined.  They  had  been  spending  a  good 
deal  of  money  in  drinks  at  the  bar,  and  a  young  man 
with  a  fat,  pink, .circular  face  who  stood  behind  it, 
was  now  offering  them  cigars  and  requesting  that 
they  would  "have  a  smoke  wid  the  house." 

They  all  accepted  the  cigars,  which  were  of  a  brand 
not  to  be  contemned,  and  their  talk  flowed  on  in 
something  like  this  strain  as  they  handed  one  an- 
other the  little  stiff,  thin  slips  of  wood  that  were 
used  for  lighters. 

"We  don't  want  no  more  dudes  in  Congress.  They 
ain't  no  good.  They  on'y  make  trouble  with  the 
rest  o'  the  boys,  anyhow." 

"  That's  so,  Hughey.  Down  with  the  dudes,  Jsay, 
They're  too  fresh,  altogether.  They're  as  bad  as 
Mugwumps." 


WOMEN  MUST  WEEP  139 


"  They  ketch  the  brown-stone  voters,  though." 

"Well,  there  ain't  so  many  o' them,  just  now. 
They  don't  show  their  heads  much  except  when  some- 
one raises  a  scare  about  frauds  and  spoils." 

"Humph!"  The  brown-stone  voters  had  better 
shoot  their  mouths  off  on  that  subject !  How  did 
more'n  half  o'  them  get  the  boodle  they  sport  their 
valleys  and  flunkies  and  carriages  with?  Hey?" 

"  Why,  they  got  it  out  o'  gambling  deals  and  com- 
bines in  Wall  street,  out  o'  wreckin'  railroads  an' 
makin'  corners  in  the  stock-market,  out  o'  corruptin' 
through  lobbyists  in  the  state  legislates  as  well  as 
down  to  Washington,  an'  out  o'  bandin'  themselves 
together  like  a  knot  o'  Barnum's  menagerie  snakes, 
for  the  formin'  o'  their  cussed  trusts  and  monopolies. 
That's  how  the  brown-stone  voters  got  it,  and  are 
gettin'  it  to-day.  An'  then  they  turn  up  their  nice 
erristocratic  noses  at  what  they  choose  to  call  the 
scandalous  thieveries  o'  the  politics  o'  New  York." 

This  oratoric  tirade  was  hailed  with  an  applausive 
murmur,  which  had  just  died  away  as  Heffernan 
stepped  into  the  saloon.  He  nodded  in  his  grave 
style  to  three  or  four  of  the  assembled  convivialists, 
but  did  not  join  them.  He  had  been,  until  a  few 
months  past,  rather  popular  with  his  political  con- 
stituents, but  lately  the  increased  grimness  of  his 
bearing  had  caused  adverse  comment.  Not  that  he  was 
now  really  disliked,  since  his  repute  for  being  "  a  good 
feller  at  heart"  and  "solid  withtheboys  every  time," 
had  by  no  means  waned.  But  whispers  had  recently 
gone  about  that  his  wealth  and  official  dignities  had 
caused  him  to  assume  undue  airs.  Some  disbelieved 
this;  perhaps  the  man  did  so  who  had  just  made  the 
little  denunciatory,  tit-for-tat  harangue,  and  who 


140  WOMEN  MUST  WEEP 

now  approached  him  whither  he  had  retired  at  the 
further  end  of  the  shop.  This  man  was  one  of  the 
diamond- wearers,  'a  stone  of  great  size  and  sheen 
glittering  from  his  red  satin  neck-tie.  He  had  a  large 
and  fleshly  face  of  almost  deadly  pallor,  slightly 
pitted  with  small-pox.  His  features  were  all  heavy, 
even  cumberous,  and  if  he  smiled  they  all  remained 
impassive  except  the  lips,  whose  chalky  hue  made 
the  broad,  white  teeth  look  yellow.  His  name  was 
Larry  McGonigle,  and  he  had  managed  to  make  it  a 
name  far  more  feared  than  loved.  He  was  the  tire- 
less henchman  of  his  Boss,  but  he  was  also  a  Leader 
of  stern  rule  in  the  four  wards  which  he  dominated. 
He  had  tasted  the  flavor  of  many  a  perquisite,  and 
lived  now  on  the  fat  of  the  land.  In  the  giving  out 
of  contracts  for  public  work  he  had  received  and 
pocketed  illicit  thousands;  by  his  control  of  munici- 
pal committees  throughout  the  realm  which  he  gov- 
erned he  stood  toward  his  chief  in  the  light  of  satrap 
to  sultan;  he  had  but  to  lift  one  of  his  pale,  puffy 
fingers  and  appointments  were  reversed,  candidates 
created,  aspirants  repulsed.  The  Throne  beamed 
graciously  upon  him  at  all  times,  and  he  was  a 
mighty  power  behind  it.  From  numerous  grabs  and 
"divides"  he  had  glided  nimbly  off  with  copious  booty. 
His  character,  from  all  points  of  view,  was  a  blending 
of  servility,  avarice  and  dishonesty.  He  was  known 
to  be  a  relentless  hater,  and  there  were  tales  afloat 
of  his  fiendish  and  implacable  temper.  Still,  he  had 
a  kind  of  left-handed  honor,  or  was  reported  to  have 
by  those  who  knew  him  best.  His  word,  once  given, 
it  was  sometimes  said,  he  never  "went  back"  on 
any  bond  or  gage  of  help  which  that  word  may  have 
conveyed,  and  from  certain  current  rumors  concern- 


WOMEN  MUST  WEEP  141 

ing  him,  one  might  have  argued  that  his  loathing  of 
ingratitude  was  almost  as  strong  as  Dante's.  He 
had  certainly  ample  reason  for  testing  this  one  par- 
ticular human  virtue,  since  his  acts  of  aid  had  been 
manifold  in  the  departments  of  Finance,  Public 
Works,  Law  and  even  Police.  For  years  he  had  been 
part  of  a  large  political  machine,  but  a  thinking  and 
sentient  part,  as  now  was  palpably  shown,  and  a 
part  with  strong  if  concealed  ambition.  Soiled  as 
he  was,  he  chose  openly  to  base  a  new  and  bold  claim 
for  public  office  on  the  simple  though  insolent  pre- 
tension that  however  darkly  venal  might  be  his 
record,  it  had  never  met  with  legal  disclosure  or  de- 
nouncement. There  was  something  at  once  horrible 
and  interesting  in  the  audacity  of  this  'Larry  Mc- 
Gonigle,  this  well-known  though  unconvicted  thief 
having  presumed  to  demand  a  seat  in  the  Congress 
of  his  native  land.  Yet  on  Washington  he  had  fixed 
his  vicious  eye,  and  it  was  because  of  this  daring 
aspiration  that  he  now  sought  Heffernan,  whose 
election  as  alderman  he  had  sturdily  backed.  Heffer- 
nan listened  to  him  for  perhaps  five  minutes,  in 
secret  amazement.  When  the  truth  was  out,  he  folded 
his  large,  strong  arms  and  stared  straight  into  the 
speaker's  face. 

"So  you  really  mean  it,  Larry?  "  he  said.  "You 
ain't  jokin',  or  anything  like  that?  " 

Just  then  two  or  three  of  Larry's  companions 
called  to  him.  They  were  annoyed  at  Heffernan's 
unsocial  treatment  of  them,  and  on  this  account  re- 
sented their  friend's  desertion. 

But  Larry  answered  them  curtly,  even  grufHy. 
"Jokin'?"  he  said  to  his  new  companion.  "Why, 
Andy,  I  thought  you'd  sized  me  up  better'n  that!  O* 


142  WOMEN  MUST  WEEP 


course  I  mean  it.     I'm  goin'  to  run,  and  I  want  you 
to  fix  things." 
"  Fix  things?  " 

"Why,  certainly.    Here  in  this  district.     There's 

lots  o'  time,  and  nobody's  got  more  pull  than  you." 

"But,  Larry,  I  guess  you've   forgot   something. 

Next  November  young  Wentworth's  goin'  to  run  on 

our  ticket,    For  that  matter  we're  pledged " 

"  Oh,  pledge  be  d d !     Young  Wentworth's  one 

o*  the  brown-stone  gang  we  boys  \vere  talkin'  about  a 
minute  before  you  turned  up.  Look  here,  Andy,  I've 
got  a  little  job  to  ask  you  to  do  for  me,  and  I'm 
goin'  to  give  you  long  notice  in  the  doin'  of  it.  You 
can  tend  to  the  canvas  'round  in  these  quarters— no- 
body can  manage  that  racket  like  ye,  understand. 
No  one — bar  none! 

"Yes;  but  if  young  Wentworth ' 

"Oh,  hang  young  Wentworth!      Let  him  pay  his 
five-thousand  dollars  down,  if  he  wants.     Let  him 
pay  it  to  you." 
"To  me?" 

"Yes,  why  not?  The  boys  '11  'range  it  with  the  bal- 
lots afterward  for  me.  This  Fifth  avenue  baby  '11 
find  himself  in  the  soup,  that's  all.  You  catch  on, 
don't  ye,  Andy?" 

After  the  utterance  of  this  infamous  proposition 
from  Larry  McGonigle,  a  silence  followed.  Presently 
the  choked  voice  of  one  of  the  semi-drunken  workmen 
broke  it. 

"Ana'chist?  Me,  by  G— ?  Well,  I'm  ana'chist  an' 
dynamiter  n'  every  blessed  thing  ye  choose,  purvided 
— purvided,  mind  ye— it  '11  help  to  put  more  bread 
into  the  mouth  o'  my  three  darlin'  young  wans  at 
home!" 


WOMEN  MUST  WEEP  143 

"You'd  put  more  bread  into  their  mouths  if  you 
put  less  whiskey  into  your  own,"  growled  one  of 
Larry's  late  associates.  And  then  another  of  these 
gentlemen  called  to  him,  "  Larry,  what  '11  ye  have?" 
and  received  a  short,  cold  answer  that  created  pur- 
sings  of  lips  and  liftings  of  noses  among  the  bacchan- 
al group.  But  the  resentment  was  not  directed  at 
Larry  ;  it  had  the  frigid  behavior  of  Heffernan  for  its 
cause ;  and  presently  they  all  trooped  out  in  disgust 
at  what  they  chose  to  consider  the  airs  of  their  host, 
and  as  they  swaggered  in  couples  along  the  lamplit 
a.venue  each  had  some  little  tale  to  tell  of  how  Andy 
Heffernan  was  feeling  his  oats  lately,  since  he  had  got 
to  be  such  a  grandee  at  the  liquor-trade  besides  alder- 
man of  his  ward. 

The  two  workmen  went  on  mumbling  their  sedi- 
tious imbecilities  and  clapperclawing  each  other  at  in- 
tervals in  polite  frenzy.  One  of  them  tried  to  quote 
a  hysteric  stanza  from  a  certain  Fenian  poet,  and  re- 
ceived a  thankless  guffaw  as  he  first  failed  in  the 
iambics  and  then  in  the  rhymes.  High  over  the 
counter  a  clock  with  a  face  almost  as  circular  as  the 
pink-complexioned  bar-keeper's  pointed  to  the  hour 
of  two,  and  the  bar- tender  yawned  sleepily  while  he 
looked  up  at  its  cold  black-and-white  confession. 
Then  he  glanced  toward  Larry  and  his  employer, 
doubtless  wondering  what  meant  the  pause  that  had 
come  between  them  and  hoping  that  it  might  mean 
an  end  of  their  low-voiced  confab. 

But  Heffernan  soon  broke  the  pause.  The  light 
back  there  was  always  dim  at  this  watch  of  night, 
and  Larry  could  not  see  his  face  very  well,  though 
aware  that  it  had  grown  unwontedly  grave. 

"Here's  the  long  and  short  of  it,"   said  Heffernan. 


144  WOMEN  MUST  WEEP 


"You  want  me  to  egg  on  Wentworth  at  the  Novem- 
ber election,  Larry,  and  then,  when  the  time  comes, 
to  knife  him?" 

"Knife  him — yes,"  said  Larry,  with  a  faint,  sly, 
shrewd  laugh.  "  That's  just  what  I  do  want." 

"  Oh,  it's  a  bad  business,"  Heffernan  said,  half  turn- 
ing away.  He  meant  more  than  that — he  meant, 
indeed,  that  it  was  a  thing  criminally  vile  and  that 
he  shrank  from  it  with  secret  horror.  But  he  did  not 
say  so.  Was  he  afraid  to  speak  the  words?  Here 
stood  a  man  to  whom  he  owed  much,  and  a  man  who 
had  sought  him  now  because  of  just  those  old  debts. 

Larry  McGonigle's  eyes  began  to  glisten  as  he  fixed 
them  on  his  friend's  profile. 

"  You  won't  stick  by  me,  then,  Andy  Heffernan?" 
he  asked,  the  question  leaving  him  in  a  gruff  mutter. 

Heffernan  slowly  turned  and  faced  Larry.  "Oh,  I 
don't  mean  that,"  he  faltered. 

Larry  put  out  his  hand.  "Ah,  now  you  talk  like 
one  of  the  boys,"  he  broke  out. 

For  an  instant  Heffernan  paused  before  he  took 
that  outstretched  hand,  and  a  fight  went  on,  quick 
yet  fiery,  between  his  worse  and  better  selves.  Then 
the  worse  triumphed,  as  it  so  often  does  on  the  duel- 
ling ground  of  our  souls,  and  he  let  his  palm  meet 
Larry's,  with  a  pressure  of  the  fingers  to  follow. 

He  knew  well  enough  that  this  clasp  of  the  hands 
involved  a  pledge.  And  while  he  gave  it  he  had  a 
sensation  like  that  which  one  might  feel  who  sinks  so 
deep  into  mire  that  his  throat  and  chin  have  touched 
its  chill  blackness  and  each  new  second  makes  it  more 
closely  threaten  his  lips. 


XI 

Gordon  Ammidown  (whose  house  was  in  the  same1 
uptown  side-street  as  the  saloon  of  Heffernan,  though 
removed  from  it  by  several  hundreds  of  yards  east- 
ward) reached  home,  after  the  Kimiicutt's  little  party, 
at  a  few  minutes  later  than  midnight.  The  house  in 
which  he  had  lived  for  a  number  of  years  past  with 
his  parents  and  sister,  was  a  stone  building  of  moder- 
ate size  and  refined  appointments.  Gordon  let  him- 
self in  with  his  latch-key,  and  as  he  entered  the  dim, 
soft-carpeted  hall  a  feminine  voice  called  gently  to 
him  from  the  head  of  the  stairs. 

"Is  that  you,  Gordon?" 

"Yes,  mother,"  he  answered. 

"  Don't  turn  the  hall-light  out,  my  son.  Your  father 
hasn't  got  home  yet." 

"  It  must  be  a  big  dinner,  certainly,"  said  Gordon 
as  he  came  up-stairs. 

"He's  to  make  a  speech,  you  know,  and — "  By 
this  time  Mrs.  Ammidown  had  come  within  reach  of 
her  son,  and  broke  abruptly  off  as  she  laid  a  hand  on 
each  of  his  shoulders,  looking  eagerly  into  his  face, 
though  the  light  in  the  second  hall  where  they  now 
met  was  almost  as  vague  as  that  below. 

In  the  next  minute  or  two  came  her  tender,  grateful 
10 


146  WOMEN  MUST  WEEP 

little  cry:  "Oh,  Gordon,  I'm  so  glad!  I— I  was  .  . 
nervous,  my  son!"  And  his  mother  leaned  her  head 
on  Gordon's  shoulder,  trembling  not  a  little  through 
all  her  delicate  frame.  Gordon  put  his  arm  about  her 
waist  and  drew  her  into  the  lighted  library.  It  was 
a  pretty  and  somewhat  stately  room,  with  books 
everywhere  except  on  floor  and  ceiling,  not  to  speak 
of  the  interspace  between  them,  which  was  relieved 
b}T  a  few  busts,  in  marble  or  bronze.  Mrs.Ammidown 
turned  up  the  lamp  on  the  middle  table  till  it  cast 
hardier  rays  through  the  charming,  scholastic  dusk  of 
the  chamber.  At  the  same  moment  Gordon  threw 
himself  into  one  of  the  big  leathern  arm-chairs,  and 
said  rather  wearily:  "I  wish  you  hadn't  bothered, 
mother.  I  really  wish  you  hadn't.  It's  all  right,  you 
know  and  it's  going  to  stay  all  right." 

"Forgive  me  for  worrying,  Gordon,"  she  answered. 
She  seated  herself  not  far  from  him  as  she  thus  spoke. 
The  lamp-rays  appeared  to  touch  her  caressingly , in  her 
slenderness  of  frame  and  her  faded  sweetness  of  vis- 
age. "I  somehow  couldn't  help  it,  though;  I " 

"Yes,  oh  yes,"  he  broke  in,  a  trifle  austerely.  Then, 
at  once  making  his  tones  milder,  he  went  on :  "You've 
waited  up  for  father,  I  suppose?" 

"Well,  I  thought  he  might  be  in  soon." 

A  bitter,  fleeting  smile  crept  between  Gordon's  lips. 
He  knew  as  well  as  if  she  had  said  it,  now,  for  whom 
his  mother  had  been  "waiting.  "Father  may  not  be 
home  for  an  hour  yet,"  he  said,  taking  out  his  watch 
and  glancing  at  it.  "  When  a  lot  of  newspaper  men 
get  together  at  Delmonico's,  like  this,  the  speeches 
and  the  general  hand-shakings  occupy  a  small  etern- 
ity." 

"  Qh,  yes,  I  know,"  said  Mrs.  Ammidown,     "Have 


WOMEN  MUST  WEEP  147 

you  had  a  pleasant  time  this  evening  at  the  house  of 
your  old  college  friend?  Mr.  .  Mr.  .  I  never  can 
recollect  the  name,  somehow." 

"Kinnicutt." 

"Ah,  yes.    Were  there  many  at  the  reception  ?" 

"It  wasn't  a  reception.  It  was  a  horribly  stupid 
little  third  rate  gathering  in  a  flat  on  Seventh  avenue. 
But  Harvey  Kinnicutt  is  a  very  nice  gentlemanly 
fellow  .  .  I  think  I  told  you  that  before.  He  married 
into  a  family  of  three  sisters,  and  they  were  all  three 
present.  His  wife  is  a  sprightly  and  rather  pretty 
woman,  with  what  Florence  would  no  doubt  call  a 
dowdy  manner.  It  isn't  vulgar,  but  it's  .  .  Good 
heavens,  how  difficult  these  kinds  of  definitions  are! 
There's  another  married  sister,  a  Mrs.  Legree,  a  per- 
son with  chronic  high  color,  though  not  bad-looking, 
and  she  has  precisely  the  same  general  style  of  de- 
portment as  Mrs.  Kinnicutt." 

His  mother  laughed.  "But  you  haven't  told  me 
\vhat  style  Mrs.  Kinnicutt's  is.  You've  merely  said 
that  it  isn't  vulgar." 

Gordon  smilingly  nodded,  and  then  gave  a  hopeless 
little  gesture  with  both  hands.  "Oh,"  he  suddenly 
said,  striking  the  arm  of  his  chair,  "I  can  explain 
them  both  through  their  younger  sister,  whose  name 
I  discovered  to  be  Annette,  and  who  is  pretty  and  en- 
gaging. Annette  has  big  dark  eyes,  with  a  liquid 
light  in  them,  like  a  deer's.  She  struck  me  as  being 
dressed  in  good  taste,  though  I've  not  an  idea  what 
she  had  on.  The  other  sisters  didn't  strike  me,  some- 
how, as 'being  dressed  in  equally  good  taste,  though 
I  haven't  an  idea,  either,  what  they  had  on.  Annette 
never  says  "sir"  when  she  speaks  to  you;  the  two 
other  sisters  occasionally  do  say  it,  and  they  have  a 


148  WOMEN  MUST  WEEP 

way — oh,  an  indescribable  way — that  isn't  a  bit 
high-bred.  Of  course  it's  the  essence  of  culture  com- 
pared with  the  way  of  some  of  their  relations.  But 
Annette,  on  the  other  hand,  seems  to  me  a  very  re- 
fined and  s \veet-mannered  young  girl.  She  doesn't 
appear  to  realize  that  she's  a  grade  or  two  less  .  . 
less  middle-class  than  her  sisters ;  I  think  she  would 
be  very  angry  at  anyone  who  told  her  so.  But  it's 
true,  notwithstanding,  and  possibly  a  single  fact  ex- 
plains it;  she  went  to  a  private  school  for  three  years 
or  so,  because  the  two  elder  girls  urged  their  father 
to  send  her  to  one.  They  went  to  a  public  school, 
however,  and  it  may  be  that  all  the  difference  lies 
just  there." 

"Miss  Annette  doesn't  say  'sir,'  then,"  smiled  his 
mother.  "And  you're  quite  certain  she  doesn't 
' reckon '  or  ' guess ?'" 

"  Oh,  we  all  '  guess '  more  than  we're  aware  of,  here 
in  the  land  of  the  free." 

"And  she's  really  very  nice,  Gordon ?  Yci'.'ire  been 
taken  with  her?" 

"Why,  yess,"  he  said,  slowly,  as  if  he  were  making 
the  confession  to  himself.  "  I  shall  be  very  sorry  not 
to  see  her  again.  In  fact  I  promised  I'd  go  there 
once  more,  especially  to  see  her.  She's  so  sympa- 
thetic." 

After  a  little  silence  his  mother  said : 

"  It's  pleasant  to  think  of  your  caring  for  someone 
else  at  last,  my  boy." 

"Someone  else?1'  he  replied,  springing  from  his 
chair  with  a  short,  brusque  laugh.  "If  you're  mak- 
ing any  reference  to  Marian  Chalmers,  I  can  only  tell 
you  that  I've  torn  her  out  of  my  thoughts  months 
ago.  ."  With  much  lighter  and  cheerier  voice,  he  pur- 


WOMEN  MUST  WEEP  149 


sued:  "It's  time  we  were  both  in  bed,  mother.  1 
think  you're  a  little  foolish  to  wait  up  for  father,  but 
still,  as  you  please."  .  . 

Mrs.  Ammidown  did  wait  up  for  her  husband, 
though  the  vigil  proved  a  brief  one.  She  wondered, 
while  it  lasted,  if  her  son  had  really  ceased  to  regret 
Marian  Chalmers,  the  girl  who  had  broken  her  en- 
gagement with  him  two  years  ago  for  reasons  that 
she,  Gordon's  mother,  partial  and  devoted  though 
her  love  was,  could  never  rate  as  either  cruel  or  un- 
just. 

Simeon  Ammidown  soon  appeared,  in  full  evening 
dress,  with  an  immense  spray  of  hyacinths,  which  he 
had  got  at  the  dinner,  bulging  from  a  lapel  of  his 
coat.  Taller  than  Gordon,  he  managed  his  slight 
corpulence  with  dignity.  He  had  once  had  just  the 
auburn  hair  and  beard  of  his  son,  but  time  and  dis- 
appointment had  thinned  and  paled  them  both.  He 
bore  himself  (with  a  face  more  aquiline  than  that  of 
Gordon,  with  an  eye  deeper-set  and  severer)  like  a 
man  who  has  something  to  tell  the  world  but  first 
requires  that  it  shall  deferentially  listen,  There,  per- 
haps, had  lain  all  his  trouble;  he  had  wanted  too 
autocratically  that  the  world  should  listen.  And  in 
a  way  it  had  listened,  though  not  with  attention 
enough,  not  with  the  homage  that  he  desired  or  that 
he  held  himself  worthy  to  demand.  Every  new  social 
experience  discontented  him.  His  pride  was  like  an 
uncovered  nerve ;  the  merest  air-currents  \vould  set  it 
aching.  He  abhorred  push  in  others  and  scorned  to 
show  the  least  himself.  He  assumed  that  men  must 
come  to  him ;  he  would  not  meet  them  half-way ;  his 
was  the  right  of  superior  intellect— if  they  pleased, 
of  genius.  In  consequence  of  this  morbid  self-esteem 


150  WOMEN  MUST  WEEP 

he  suffered  acutely,  and  spent  hours  in  thinking  bitter 
thoughts  about  the  neglect  with  which  his  fellows 
treated  him.  And  as  usually  happens,  in  such  cases, 
his  fellows  were  for  the  most  part  ignorant  that  he 
even  charged  them  with  neglect,  and  said  carelessly 
that  he  was  a  clever  man,  this  Ammidown,but  some- 
how had  got  soured  by  life.  And  then  perhaps  they 
would  add  that  he  was  sensible  in  keeping  his  acidity 
out  of  his  newspaper,  though  Heaven  knew  he  put 
there  enough  denunciation  and  wrath. 

"I  do  hope  you  made  a  speech  to-night,  Simeon," 
said  his  wife.  "You  promised  you  would,  you  know, 
if  they  asked  you." 

He  shrugged  his  shoulders.  "Oh,  they  called  on 
me,  but  it  was  after  Struthers  of  the  Criterion  and 
Kindelon  of  the  Asteroid." 

"There  was  no  slight  intended,  though!  There 
couldn't  have  been." 

"  There  was  a  slight  felt,  however.  I  gave  them  a 
few  words  and  sat  down.  Why,  good  Heavens, 
Louise,  I  should  have  been  asked  to  preside !  "  .  .  .  He 
then  spoke  on,  for  a  little  while,  standing  near  the 
crimson  ruin  of  fire  in  the  grate  and  referring  to  this 
or  that  guest  at  the  dinner — his  appearance,  his 
foibles  or  oddities,  his  conversational  disclosures, 
the  delivery  and  quality  of  his  speech.  A  frequent 
thorn  of  sarcasm  pricked  through  these  remarks,  to 
some  of  which  Airs.  Ammidown  put  in  a  protest  of 
"  Oh,  Simeon,"  in  her  low,  suave  treble. 

"But  you're  up  at  this  wild  hour,"  the  editor  sud- 
denly said  to  his  wife.  "  You  were  \vaiting ?  " 

"For  Gordon,"  she  ended,  and  then  told  where  her 
son  had  been  and  what  he  had  said  about  his  friend 
Kinnicutt's  relatives  by  marriage.  . 


WOMEN  MUST  WEEP  151 

"He  was  ...  all  right?"  Aramidowa  murmured, 
with  a  peculiar  look,  as  she  ceased  speaking. 

"  Oh,  yes — oh,  perfectly,"  she  hurried. 

"  By  the  way,"  he  asked,  after  a  little  pause,  "  who 
are  these  people  among  whom  Gordon's  friend  mar- 
ried?" 

" Her  father,  who  is  now  dead,  kept  a  drug-store  on 
Greenwich  Avenue." 

"Oh,  indeed!  A  fine  lot  for  Gordon  to  be  going 
among !  And  you  say  he  admired  an  unmarried 
daughter  of  this  distinguished  .house  ?" 

Mrs.  Ammidown  bit  her  lips.  "He evidently  likes 
her,  and  says  that  she  is  very  cultured  and  nice." 

"Really!" 

"Simeon,  reflect  a  moment ;  if  our  Gordon  could 
marry  any  good  and  pure  girl  now,  think  what  sal- 
vation it  might  be  to  him ! ' ' 

She  was  looking  with  great  earnestness  into  her 
husband's  face,  but  Ammidown  stared  past  her  very 
coldly,  even  though  she  caught  his  large,  solid  arm 
with  both  her  frail  hands. 

"Oh, "he  said,  curtly,  "marriage  of  course  might 
help  him;  but " 

"I  know  what  you  mean,"  she  struck  in,  agi- 
tatedly. "  But  if  it  were  a  good,  true-hearted  girl ! 
Remember,  we  can't  look  high  for  him.  now.  The 
breaking  of  that  engagement  with  Marian  Chal- 
mers lias  got  about  so;  has  hurt  him  so!" 

"Yes,  I  suppose  it  has."  And  then  the  father  added, 
sternly,  in  his  beard:  "More  shame  to  him  that  it 
has!" 

"God  knows  I  don't  excuse  him,  Simeon,"  the 
mother  said,  with  tremors  in  her  voice  that  told  as 
if  they  had  been  sobs.  "  But  I  can't  forget  my  poor 


152  WOMEN  MUST  WEEP 

father,  and  my  brother,  Ben.  You  know  what 
father  might  have  been  but  for  that  curse,  and  what 
Ben  became  on  account  of  it !  " 

"Yes,  dear,  I  know." 

"Well,  how  often  have  you  said,  Simeon,  that 
heredity  is  the  strongest  force  \vhich  affects  our  lives? 
Who  knows  if  Gordon  could  have  done  much  better, 
even  at  all  better,  than  he  has  done  as  it  is?  But  this 
idea  of  his  marriage!  Oh,  I  feel  that  it  might  mean 
such  worlds  of  good  to  him! " 

Ammidown  took  his  wife's  hand  between,  both  his 
own  and  held  it  thus  while  he  shook  his  head  and 
smiled. 

"My  dear  Louise!  Has  it  ever  occurred  to  yon 
that  you  might  be  ruining  the  poor  girl's  entire  life?" 

"Simeon!"  she  exclaimed,  with  an  effort  to  draw 
her  hand  away.  "  How  ca/2  you?  Wouldn't  she  be 
raising  herself  by  marrying  among  us?"  .... 

Few  women  ever  lived  with  a  clearer  conscience 
than  Louise  Ammidown's,  and  yet  when  her  husband 
made  a  wry  face,  half  humorous  and  half  very  seri- 
ous indeed,  she  did  not  feel  by  any  means  beset  by 
compunctious  twinges.  There  had  been  something 
in  her  son's  manner  while  he  spoke  of  this  Annette 
Trask  (or  at  least  she  had  so  believed)  that  struck 
her  as  filmed  if  not  penetrated  by  a  glamour  of  true 
sentiment.  As  a  few  more  days  went  on,  she  grew 
possessed  with  the  idea  that  she  should  know  and 
cultivate  Annette.  Her  love  for  her  son  made  this 
idea  appeal  to  her  in  the  light  of  a  duty.  She  had 
never  been  able  to  convince  her  husband  that  he 
should  use  drastic  measures  in  the  way  of  blunting 
his  abnormal  sensitiveness  and  put  his  belief  in  his 
own  deserts  where  it  could  suffer  neither  augment  or 


WOMEN  MUST  WEEP  153 

decrease  from  the  passing  treatment  of  society.  But 
she  had  strong  influence  over  him,  nevertheless,  and 
she  soon  used  it  with  effect  as  regarded  the  birth 
and  general  origin  of  Isaac  Trask's  daughter. 

"It's  got  to  be  a  fad  with  you,"  said  her  husband, 
one  evening,  when  they  sat  together  in  this 
same  library,  where  they  had  lately  discussed  Gor- 
don's first  meeting  with  Annette,  "that  our  boy 
should  make  up  to  that  girl.  Oh,  well,  have  your 
way,  Louise.  Heaven  knows  I've  never  given  a  fig 
for  family  and  pedigree.  As  you  know,  all  my  princi- 
ples havs  been  against  that  trash  here  in  America. 
But  I  did  not  want  my  son  to  marry  a  women  in 
.  .  well,  what  we  \vould  call  the  lower  ranks.  You 
say  he's  gone  there  again  to-night?  " 

"  Yes,  Simeon.  And  he's  been  there  once  before.  I 
trust  Gordon's  taste,  you  know.  And  he  seems  to  be 
really  attracted.  I  haven't  said  a  word  to  Florence 
yet.'  I  dread  her  behavior  if  anything  shouldhappen. 
It's  too  sad  that  Florence  should  be  as  absorbed  as 
she  is  by  this  devotion  to  fashionable  people  and  do- 
ings." 

"  Poor  Florence,"  was  the  reply.  "  But  you  would 
insist  on  sending  her  to  that  aristocratic  school,  three 
years  ago." 

"I  didn't  know  it  was  aristocratic,  Simeon.  I 
didn't  know  what  'aristocratic'  meant,  forthat  mat- 
ter, in  the  sense  that  you  now  use  the  word  and  that 
she  \vould  certainly  use  it.  I  wanted  her  to  speak 
French,  and  she  has  learned  to  speak  it  remarkably 
well.  But  to  my  surprise  she  met  girls  there  at 
Madame  Taillot's  who  treated  her  with  grand  con- 
descension as  not  being  in  the  'set'  of  their 
mammas  and  papas.  I've  told  Florence  till  I'm  tired 


154  WOMEN  MUST  WEEP 

telling  her,  how  nonsensical  all  this  self-assumption 
is.  On  your  side  she  comes  of  excellent  stock,  for  was 
not  your  grandfather  a  leading  New  York  judge  ?  On 
my  side  she  is  of  the  real  old  Knickerbocker  element, 
for  was  not  my  grandfather,  Peter  Van  Boskirk,  a 
merchant  of  unblemished  position?  But  no ;  Florence 
has  got  hold  of  a  new  word,  '  swell  '—such  a  brassy, 
vulgar-sounding  word  to  me,  Simeon!  She  insists 
that  neither  the  Ammidowns  nor  the  Van  Boskirks 
have  ever  been 'swell,' and  the  poor,  dear  girl  is  eat- 
ing her  heart  out  because  she  can't  be  invited  to  cer- 
tain teas,  receptions  and  dancing-parties  where  a 
particular  clique  congregate.  .  .  Ah,"  finished  Mrs. 
Ammidown,  suddenly  turning  as  she  heard  a  light 
step  cross  a  near  threshold,  "it's  you  Florence,  and 
I  don't  doubt  you've  heard  half  what  I've  been  saying 
to  your  father." 

"I've  heard  lots,  mamma,"  said  Florence,  with  a 
dulcet  little  laugh,  as  she  slipped  to  her  father's  side 
and  laid  a  hand  on  his  shoulder.  "  Enough  to  con- 
vince me,"  she  \vent  on,  "that  you  don't  misrepresent 
me  in  my  supposed  absence." 

Mrs.  Ammidown  looked  at  her  husband,  with  a 
little  touch  of  connubial  signal-service  in  the  way  of 
slightly  lifting  her  shoulders.  "You  see,"  she  observed 
dryly,  "I'm  not  contradicted." 

Florence  gave  her  father  a  kiss,  full  on  the  lips. 
"Pooh,  mamma,  he  knows  all  about  my  feelings," 
the  young  lady  exclaimed.  "  We've  talked  them  all 
over,  haven't  we,  papa?" 

"They  all  come  from  those  confounded  newspapers," 
mildly  grumbled  Ammidown.  "  Thank  God  I've  kept 
'society  notes'  out  of  the  Monitor.  But  you  will 
read  others,  Florry.  You  will  read  of  how  Miss 


WOMEN  MUST  WEEP  155 

Schenectady  appeared  at  the  latest  extravaganza  of 
snobbery  called  a  Patriarch's  Ball  or  a  Ladies'  As- 
sembly, or  Heaven  knows  what,  clad  in  such-and- 
such  a  gown,  with  specialized  folderol  for  trimmings. 
And  this  rubbish,  my  dear,  with  other  details  equally 
insipid  and  flippant,  wakes  your  envy,  as  I  dare  say 
it  wakes  the  envy  of  many  another  New  York  girl 
of  just  your  mental  calibre  and  social  place.  It's  too 
bad,  Florry.  These  devilish  newspaper  squibs  are 
doing  a  frightful  lot  of  harm,  I've  not  the  ghost  of  a 
doubt,  to  hundreds  of  good  little  maids  like  yourself." 

"Please  don't  call  me  a  good  little  maid,  papa," 
dissented  Florence.  "It  has  such  a  namby-pamby 
sound." 

"  Of  course  it  has,  my  dear,"  said  her  mother,  with 
a  tone  of  patient  despair.  "  You  would  far  rather  be 
referred  to  as  a  belle  of  the  season,  or  as  having  led  the 
German  at  Mrs.  Stuyvesant  Van  Corlear's  with  Mr. 
Vandewater  Poughkeepsie. " 

"  Dear  me," said  Florence,  with  a  laugh,  "  how  well 
you  know  their  names,  mamma ! " 

"  Oh,  I've  reason  enough  for  that,"  returned  Mrs. 
Ammidown.  "You're  always  dinning  them  in  my 
ears." 

Though  not  pretty,  Florence  had  an  interesting 
face  lit  by  soft  brown  eyes,  masses  of  silky  chestnut 
hair  and  a  beautiful  figure,  full  of  lissome  curves.  At 
these  words  of  her  mother  she  gave  a  pout  and  a 
mutinous  little  toss  of  the  head. 

"  They've  swell  names,  and  they  belong  to  the  peo- 
ple I  want  to  go  among,"  affirmed  Florence.  "  I  don't 
care  to  go  out  at  all  unless  I  can  mix  \vith  the  very 
best." 

"Oh,  Florence!"  lamented  her  father.  "If  you 
could  see  yourself  as  I  see  you  now ! " 


156  WOMEN  MUST  WEEP 

"  The  very  best,  indeed !  "  complained  Mrs.  Ammi- 
down.  "  Why,  I  had  always  been  brought  up  to  be- 
lieve that /belonged  to  the  very  best!  There  never 
was  any  'Four  Hundred'  when  I  \vasa  young  girl." 

"Oh,  excuse  me,  mamma,  but  there  was,"  contra- 
dicted Florence,  with  the  true  domination  of  the 
American  daughter,  though  without  a  scintilla  of 
actual  disrespect.  "The  exclusive  persons  have  al- 
ways held  their  own  here,  for  fully  a  hundred  years 
past." 

"  But  my  dear  Florence  /"  urged  Mrs.  Ammidown. 
"You  forget  that  I  was  a  Van  Boskirk,  and  the  Van 
Boskirks " 

"  Never  went  in  the  fashionable  set,"  interrupted 
Florence.  ' '  No,  never !" 

"  But  my  mother  gave  parties,"  began  Mrs.  Ammi- 
down,  "and " 

"Very  charming  ones,  mamma,  I  don't  doubt. 
But  they  were  not  attended  by  the  people  in  society. 
They  couldn't  have  been.  If  they  had  been,  you 
would  now  have  a  visiting-book  full  of  all  the  swell 
names,  and  I  should  be  going  everywhere." 

"  Really  this  is  too  much,  Simeon,"  said  Florence's 
mother,  appealing  to  the  father  of  that  young  lady. 
"  You  know,  certainly,  that  we  Van  Boskirks  were 
considered  old  Knickerbockers  when  you  married  me!" 

"So  you  were,  Louise,"  the  editor  replied,  with  a 
smile  that  had  in  it  sadness  no  less  than  humor. 
"  But  still,  Florence  is  fatally  right  as  to  facts.  Your 
grandfather,  and  his  father  before  him,  were  too  sen- 
sible to  enroll  themselves  in  any  little  ultra-select  list 
of  New  York  citizens.  There  were  parties  at  your 
house  in  Clinton  Place,  as  you  state— the  dear  old 
family-mansion  where  you  \vere  born.  Ladies  and 


WOMEN  MUST  WEEP  157 

gentlemen  came  to  them,  and  as  far  as  I've  ever  been 
able  to  ascertain,  nobod}^  came  who  did  not  deserve 
one  or  the  other  of  those  titles.  But  as  Florence 
correctly  might  say,  the  gatherings  were  not  'swell.' 
That  abominable  little  word  of  hers  has  nothing  to 
do  with  real  respectability  or  even  gentility,  if  you 
choose.  Florence  has  got  this  craze,  and  I've  no 
doubt  that  she  connects  it  with  a  secret  grudge 
against  both  you  and  me,  for  not  having  devoted 
ourselves  to  the  cult  of  a  certain  kind  of  American 
snobbery  which  is  by  no  means  the  least  ridiculous 
feature  of  our  curiously  faulty  republic. 

"Oh,  papa!"  cried  Florence,  as  her  father  ended, 
with  a  sigh,  a  shrug  and  a  sudden  resumption  of  the 
pen  that  he  had  thrown  aside  on  the  open  desk  be- 
fore which  he  was  seated.  "la  grudge  against  you! 
How  can  you  put  it  that  way!  I  only  meant  that 
you  and  mamma  hadn't  cultivated  nice  people 
Now,  there,  you  are  both  angry  again,"  wailed  the 
girl.  "  But  how  else  can  I  put  it?  If  I  said 'good 
society 'you'd  both  be  angry,  too."  And  suddenly 
seeing  from  Ammidown's  face  that  he  was  both 
fatigued  and  repelled  by  her  obstinate  silliness, 
Florence,  who  at  heart  adored  each  parent  a  great 
deal  more  than  the  idea  of  becoming  a  shining  light 
in  the  "Four  Hundred,"  threw  both  arms  around 
her  father's  neck  and  kissed  him  with  moistened 
eyes. 

But  this  burst  of  emotion  wholly  failed  to  touch 
her  mother.  Mrs.  Ammidown  recalled  how  her 
daughter  had  dealt  her  stings  for  many  months  past 
on  the  subject  of  their  not  "knowing  the  right  peo- 
ple" and  being  "altogether  out  of  the  daintier 
cliques."  This  good  lady  had  already  realized  the 


168  WOMEN  MUST  WEEP 

full  truth  of  her  husband's  words  regarding  the  in- 
jury which  fashionable  disclosures  in  current  news- 
papers were  inflicting  on  her  child,  as  doubtless  on 
many  another  damsel  besides,  throughout  our  vast 
metropolis.  Florence  might  be  able  to  get  no  heart- 
burnings from  her  father's  journal,  the  Monitor,  but 
she  surely  got  a  great  many  from  another  journal 
which  she  bought  and  of  which  she  avidly  devoured 
special  columns.  Proceedings  of  this  sort  might  per- 
haps have  been  treated  more  leniently  by  Mrs.  Am- 
midown  if  it  had  not  been  for  her  dread  of  Florence's 
passionate  outcry  when  her  brother  Gordon's  mar- 
riage with  Annette  Trask  came  to  be  mentioned; 
and  the  possibility  of  such  a  marriage  soon  addressed 
itself  so  sharply  to  the  mind  of  Gordon's  mother 
that  she  began  to  regard  it  as  a  definite  event  in  the 
near  future. 

Her  son  had  meanwhile  paid  three  or  four  visits  up- 
on Annette.  He  had  told  his  mother  of  two  of  them, 
and  with  each  admission  had  let  slip  a  few  admiring 
words.  By  this  time  Eunice  and  Dora  were  in  thrills 
of  delight.  There  was  no  mistaking  the  pomp  and 
circumstance  of  a  match  like  that.  "  How  glad  poor 
pa  would  have  been,  wouldn't  he?  "  said  Eunice,  one 
day. 

"Good  Lord,"  replied  Dora;  "you'd  better  wait 
till  there's  a  real  sign  of  its  being  settled." 

"Oh,  things  look  awfully  promising.  Why,  just 
think:  he's  been  here  twice  this  week.  And  last  night 
I  left  'em  together  for  two  good  hours.  Austin  was 
at  the  store,  you  know,  and  I  told  the  worst  kind  of 
a  whopper;  I  said  I  had  to  step  across  the  hall  and 
see  you,  as  you'd  been  sort  of  sick  all  day;  and  there 
you  were  at  the  theatre  with  Harvey,  and  of  course 
Annette  and  I  knew  it  perfectly  well." 


WOMEN  MUST  WEEP  159 

''Oh,  Eunice,  how  could  you?"  observed  Dora, 
though  without  the  faintest  shocked  note  in  her 
voice.  "And  what  does  Annette  say  he  said?"  she 
went  on.  So  strong  was  the  bond  of  confidence  be- 
tween these  three  sisters  that  they  had  always  held 
the  rosiest  details  of  love-making  as  fair  game  for 
mutual  discussion. 

"Well,  observed  Eunice,  closing  her  eyes  for  an  in- 
stant with  the  air  of  one  who  \vishes  accurately  to 
remember,  "he  said  a  number  of  nice  things— oh,  a 
number!  He  spoke  sweetly  of  her  eyes;  you  must  get 
her  to  tell  you  just  what  it  was  he  said  about  them; 
and  then  he  told  her  he'd  never  met  a  girl  he  felt  so 
sympathetic  with  as  with  her." 

"Did  he  say  that?"  Answered  Dora.  "Why,  it 
was  exactly  the  way  Harvey  began  with  me." 

"Was  it? "Austin  beg —  But  somehow  poor 
Eunice  paused.  Perhaps  the  piteous  truth  had  al- 
ready too  keenly  dawned  upon  her  that  Austin  had 
finished,  in  a  certain  sense,  far  less  romantically  than 
he  "began."  In  another  second  she  pursued,  how- 
ever: "And  Annette  says  he  just-begged  her  to  give 
him  one  kiss  for  good-bye ;  but  she  wouldn't." 

"That  was  right,"  said  Dora.  I'm  glad  Annette 
played  her  cards  so  cleverly.  Next  time  he'll  ask  for 
two  kisses,  and  she  may  give  him  only  one,  or  per- 
haps only  half  a  one." 

There  was  something  unusual,  even  curious,  in  the 
way  these  sisters  were  willing  to  talk  with  one 
another  about  affairs  which  most  women  held  as 
sacred  secrets.  But  the  truth  was,  they,  too,  held 
them  as  sacred  secrets,  and  yet  disclosed  them  in  each 
other's  hearing  with  not  the  vaguest  feeling  of  dis- 
loyalty. It  would  not  be  exaggeration  to  state  that 


160  WOMEN  MUST  WEEP 

their  mutual  fondness  made  a  steadfast  background 
of  loving  confederacy  against  which  all  the  events  of 
their  lives  were  set  forth.  Dora,  thrilled  with  a  vague 
yet  approaching  happiness,  thought  as  much  of  how 
two  sisterly  hearts  would  be  gladdened  by  it  as  of 
how  her  dear  lord  would  be.  Eunice,  in  the  dolor  of 
her  disappointment  and  bitter  surprise,  drew  like- 
wise an  almost  unconscious  comfort  from  the  near- 
ness and  profound  capacity  for  sympathy  of  two 
sisterly  hearts.  And  as  for  Annette,  though  she  pre- 
tended at  first  not  to  care  greatly  whether  this  hand- 
some and  important  Mr.  Ammidown  was  or  was  not 
her  would-be  suitor,  she  soon  confessed  to  both  Eunice 
and  Dora  that  she  might,  if  wooed  to  her  taste,  ac- 
cept him  at  the  asking.  More  than  this,  Annette 
revealed,  with  picturesque  treachery,  the  progress  of 
her  admirer's  devotion. 

"He'd  kill  me  if  he  suspected  I  told  you  all  this," 
she  said,  one  day,  after  Gordon  had  spent  another 
evening  in  her  company  and  both  Eunice  and  Dora 
had  plied  her  with  their  mingled  questions. 

"Nonsense,"  asserted  Dora.  "It  isn't  as  if  you 
were  telling  anybody  else.  It's  only  among  ourselves. 
How  silly,  Annette,  for  you  to  feel  that  way !" 

And  then  Eunice:  "You  ought  to  be  glad  that 
you've  got  us  to  advise  you,  dear.  I  should  say  he 
was  just  on  the  verge  of  proposing.  And  since  you 
care  for  him  a  great  deal  as  you  certainly  do"  (here 
Annette  shook  her  head  several  times  and  stared  at 
her  own  hands,  which  were  twisting  themselves 
together  nervously  in  her  lap),  "you  should  realize 
that  it  will  be  a  perfectly  splendid  match  for  you." 

"Oh,  perfectly  splendid,"  echoed  Dora.  "Simeon 
Ammidown's  son !  My !  Just  think  of  it !  " 


WOMEN  MUST  WEEP  161 

The  old  elder-sister  dignity  cropped  out  in  Eunice, 
then.  "We  must  remember,  though,  who  we  are," 
she  said,  straightening  herself  and  lifting  her  chin  a 
little.  "  Pa's  record  in  business  was  "without  a  flaw 
for  many  and  many  a  year,  as  everybody  knows  who 
cares  to  inquire." 

Alas,  the  vanity  of  human  boasts !  Even  at  this 
very  hour  Florence  Ammidown,  to  whom  her  mother 
had  just  mentioned  the  possible  chance  of  her  brother's 
engagement,  was  saying  in  a  voice  of  plaintive  dis- 
gust :  "  Oh,  mamma !  The  daughter  of  a  Greenwich 
avenue  apothecary !  It's  too  dreadful !  It's  too  re- 
volting! " 

And  at  the  same  hour,  also,  Harvey  Kinnicutt, 
there  in  the  office  of  the  Monitor,  where  he  had  met 
with  such  welcome  recent  advancement,  found  him- 
self brought  face  to  face  with  a  bit  of  tidings  about 
Gordon  Ammidown  that  turned  into  mockery  all  his 
own  hopes  concerning  Annette's  potential  betrothal 
and  made  him  wonder  how  he  could  ever  muster 
nerve  enough  to  blast  the  hopes  of  Dora  and  Eunice 
as  well. 


XII 

After  a  certain  course  of  cool  reflection  Kinnicutt 
resolved  to  keep  silence.  Not  even  to  his  brother-in- 
law,  Austin  Legree,  would  he  reveal  a  \vord  of  the 
tale  which  had  just  met  his  ears.  At  first  it  had 
horrified  him,  but  later  he  thought  more  leniently  of 
its  disclosures.  After  all,  was  not  Gordon  Ammi- 
down  still  a  young  man?  He  might  reform,  or  he 
might  already  have  reformed,  and  for  good  and  all. 
The  two  or  three  persons  there  in  the  office  who  im- 
parted this  stunning  bit  of  news  to  Kinnicutt  had 
declared  also  that  these  horrid  periodic  happenings 
were  said  to  be  followed  by  fierce  fits  of  repentance. 
So  much  the  better,  argued  Dora's  husband.  There 
was  always  hope  for  a  man  not  lost  to  shame. 

When  he  next  saw  Gordon  it  was  in  Eunice's  little 
parlor,  and  the  son  of  the  distinguished  editor  had  so 
hale  and  wholesome  a  look  that  he  almost  doubted 
the  truth  of  those  grisly  tales.  Really  to  doubt 
them,  however,  would  have  been  sheer  folly;  his  in- 
formants had  babbled  no  fables,  but  told  of  what 
their  eyes  had  seen.  Gordon's  presence,  this  evening, 
•was  dealing  torture  to  a  young  man  with  a  long 
pink  nose  and  a  maidenly  manner.  The  young  man's 


WOMEN  MUST  WEEP 


name  was  Jacob  Chivver,  and  he  kept  a  little 
stationery-shop  a  fe\v  streets  away.  Poor  Chivver 
had  lifted  his  modest  gaze  toward  Annette  several 
months  ago  ;  and  now  and  then,  while  he  paid  her 
an  evening  call,  she  had  smiled  on  him,  either  with 
her  fresh  young  lips  or  her  soft,  dark  eyes,  to  an  ex- 
tent that  had  made  his  heart  beat  in  tumultous  hope. 
An  alliance  with  her  had  seemed  to  Chivver  some- 
thing very  socially  distinguished.  He  supported  an 
aged  mother  who  had  once  been  the  proprietress  of  a 
Seventh-avenue  fruit-stand.  Mrs.  Chivver  was  not 
so  old,  however,  but  that  she  could  have  beamed  ap- 
proval on  Jacob  if  he  had  married  a  daughter  of  the 
late  Isaac  Trask,  that  benign  owner  of  the  Greenwich 
avenue  drug-store,  who  used  to  help  her  rheumatism 
so  ably  with  his  mysterious  and  honored  potions. 

But  to-night  Chivver's  hopes  were  being  dashed  to 
earth.  Eunice  had  always  rather  frowned  on  his  at- 
tentions, and  now,  like  many  another  woman  of 
good  heart,  she  smothered  all  pity  of  his  passion  for 
her  sister  behind  a  demeanor  of  stone.  Chivver  was 
excessively  humble  of  spirit,  and  had  never  believed 
his  aspirations  toward  Annette  otherwise  than  pre- 
sumptuous. When  he  looked  on  Gordon  Ammidown, 
cultured  in  speech  and  of  visage,  build,  garb  and 
general  outline  so  suggesting  a  world  quite  aloof 
from  his  own,  he  underwent  that  silent  sort  of 
anguish  which  helps  to  swell  the  vast  sadness  of  the*- 
whole  human  enigma. 

He  took  himself  away  almost  an  hour  before  Gor- 
don departed.  It  was  a  commonplace  matter  enough, 
his  awkward  exit,  his  artificial  smile  on  making  that 
exit,  and  his  dreary  heart-ache  when  he  got  down- 
stairs into  the  lamplit  dark  of  the  street.  What  hap- 


164  WOMEN  MUST  WEEP 

pened  to  him  happens  to  thousands  of  others  all  the 
time.  Yesterday  destiny  had  seemed  to  beam  on  him; 
to-night  her  brows  wore  the  scowl  of  a  storm-cloud. 
Annette  had  not  been  uncivil;  she  had  been  worse, 
for  she  had  almost  forgotten  to  notice  him  in  the  pre- 
occupation caused  by  her  other  guest.  There  was 
nothing  for  Chivver  to  do  except  go  back  to  his  tiny 
shop  and  vend  his  lead-pencils  and  his  pen-handles 
with  a  brave  heart.  He  might  have  made  her  a  very 
loyal  and  tender  husband ;  he  couldn't  but  think  of 
that  for  a  long,  long  while  to  come.  But  he  did 
not  blame  her  for  preferring  such  a  grand,  healthy, 
handsome  fellow  as  Mr.  Ammidown.  It  never  oc- 
curred to  him  that  if  she  married  this  brilliant  young 
gentleman  she  would  not  be  accepting  a  fate  far  finer 
and  happier  than  any  which  his  own  powers  of  gentle 
worship  might  have  the  grace  of  conferring.  It  simply 
occurred  to  him  that  he  had  better  not  call  on  her 
again,  that  he  had  been  a  dreamer  of  very  bold  dreams 
— and  that  to-morrow,  if  the  sunshine  crept  in  on  the 
five-cent  copy-books  and  the  flasks  of  mucilage  and 
little  tin  pencil-tops  with  their  morsels  of  drab  rubber 
at  the  end,  its  rays  wouldn't  bring  him  any  more 
real  cheer  than  though  a  blizzard  from  Dakota  had 
come  to  muffle  the  sky  over  the  Seventh  avenue  house 
roofs. 

That  evening,  which  had  been  so  epical  for  sorrow 
to  one  spirit,  gladdened  another  with  golden  expect- 
ancy. Annette  had  a  little  nervous  crying-spell  on 
Eunice's  shoulder  after  Gordon  had  departed.  To 
Kinnicutt,  whose  secret  weighed  heavily  on  his  mind, 
the  strange  speed  of  the  courtship  during  another 
fortnight  proved  startling  enough.  The  day  it  be- 
came known  that  Gordon  Ammidown  had  engaged 


WOMEN  MUST  WEEP  165 

himself  to  Annette,  delight  impregnated  the  air  of  his 
own  and  the  Legree  household.  He  had  an  impulse 
to  tell  Dora  what  he  had  learned,  but  her  face  was  so 
brightly  wreathed  in  smiles  that  he  hated  the  thought 
of  dimming  them  even  ever  so  little.  Then  he  won- 
dered whether  he  ought  not  to  breathe  a  word  or  two 
in  the  ear  of  either  Eunice  or  her  husband.  But  they, 
also,  were  mantled  with  a  radiant  satisfaction;  it  was 
plain  to  him  how  keenly  his  brother-in-law's  ambition 
had  been  tickled  by  this  flattering  betrothal.  Finally 
he  brooded  a  little  on  the  question  of  addressing  Gor- 
don himself.  But  this  project  bristled  with  impolicy, 
besides  putting  him  in  the  posture  of  a  mentor,  which 
was  an  odious  one  to  his  easy-going  temperament. 
Moreover,  mused  Kinnicutt,  had  not  Gordon  met 
him  the  other  day  coming  out  of  a  down-town  res- 
taurant with  that  tantalizingly  pretty  little  Hattie 
Seldon,  who  did  the  society  column  for  the  Monitor? 
No ;  he  wouldn't  say  a  word.  It  was  a  splendid 
match  for  Annette,  and  even  if  things  did  turn  out 
bad  the  first  year  or  two  they  would  no  doubt  come 
round  all  right  in  the  end. 

"He  wants  it  to  be  a  short  engagement,"  Annette 
said  to  her  sisters.  "  He  thinks  his  mother  would 
rather  have  it  a  short  one,  though  he  didn't  tell  me 
why.  And,  oh  girls  "  (the  old  familiar  vocative  came 
so  natural  to  Annette  just  then! )  "she's  going  to 
call  on  me  very  soon,  and  I'm  frightened  out  of  my ., 
wits  when  I  think  of  it." 

"  Pooh,"  said  Eunice.  "  There's  no  use  being  fright- 
ened a  bit."  But  all  that  day  and  half  the  next,  Mrs. 
Legree  had  her  best  gown  on  the  bed,  ready  to  slip 
into  it  at  a  minute's  notice.  In  her  way  she  was 
more  excited  by  the  engagement  than  was  Dora,  and 


166  WOMEN  MUST  WEEP 

more,  for  that  matter,  than  even  Annette.  Having 
to  go  and  make  purchases,  this  same  morning,  she 
had  told  her  mighty  piece  of  news  to  the  affable 
scarlet-faced  butcher  almost  before  she  knew  it. 
"What!"  said  Mr.  Sharkey  with  his  cleaver  in  the 
air.  "You  don't  mean  that  the  last  of  ye  is  to  go 
off  so  quick  as  that?  Well,  well,  the  men's 
got  more  sense  nowadays  than  I  give  'em 
credit  for.  And  who  is  the  lucky  party,  Mrs.  Legree?" 

Then  with  an  attempt  to  seem  as  if  she  were  saying 
the  most  ordinary  thing,  Eunice  gave  her  answer; 
adding  after  a  moment  or  two:  "He's  the  only  son 
of  Mr.  Simeon  Ammidown,  the  great  editor,  you 
know." 

"Ah,  Simeon  A.mmidown — I  know  him!"  cried  Mr. 
Sharkey,  who  had  political  creeds.  "A  fine  man  as 
ever  was.  He's  fit  to  be  President  to-morrer,  so  he 
is."  And  Mr.  Sharkey  cut  Eunice  a  more  generous 
steak  than  usual,  by  almost  half  a  pound. 

The  next  afternoon  Mrs.  Ammidown  came,  and  all 
three  sisters  went  into  her  presence  with  fluttering 
pulses.  They  might  not  have  felt  so  honored  by  the 
visit  it  they  had  witnessed  a  few  recent  scenes  be- 
tween herself  and  Florence.  Only  that  morning  Mrs. 
Ammidown  had  said  pleadingly : 

"My  dear,  you  will  come  with  me,  will  you  not?" 

Florence  was  seated  near  a  window,  reading  a 
newspaper  account  of  the  Assemblies  on  the  previous 
evening.  She  had  reached  that  part  wherein  the  cos- 
tumes of  the  ladies  \vere  described,  and  had  drifted 
into  a  revery  of  the  folio  wing  highly  intellectual  char- 
acter : 

"Mrs.  Bleeker  Satterthwaite  in  yellow  satin  again? 

,    It  must  be  the  same  dress  she  wore  at  the  New 


WOMEN  MUST  WEEP  167 

Year's  ball,  several  weeks  ago.  And  Lily  Schenec- 
tady  in  green  ?  Oh,  yes,  I  recollect ;  she's  a  blonde, 
and  it  must  have  been  becoming."  (Florence  did  not 
know  a  quarter  of  these  peoplp  about  whom  she  read  so 
pertinaciously  even  by  sight,  but  she  had  studied  for 
months  past  what  the  daily  and  weekly  journals 
had  said  of  them.)  "And  that  Poughkeepsie 
girl,  who  is  expected  to  catch  Lord  Glenartney 
before  he  sails  back  to  England,  had  on  the 
family  emeralds.  Think  of  entering  a  ball-room 
deqked  out  in  your  family  emeralds,  with  an  Earl 
to  carry  your  bouquet!  Oh,  dear,  what  superb 
times  these  girls  must  have!  And  then  to  think 
that  I'm  not  only  out  of  it  but  that  my  brother — my 
own  flesh-and-blood  brother — should  be  going  to 
marry  so  horribly !" 

At  this  point  her  mother  had  entered  the  room  and 
made  to  her  that  recorded  appeal. 

"Oh,  no,  no!"  Florence  refused.  "I  should  do  or 
say  something  awfully  rude,  mamma,  if  I  went." 

"  But,  Florence,  you'll  have  to  meet  them  sooner  or 
later." 

"Well,  then,  let  it  be  as  late  as  possible— that 'sail." 

"But  is  this  kind  to  your  brother,  Florence?  He  is 
deeply  in  love  with  the  girl ;  he  has  told  me  so." 

"  In  that  case  he  ought  to  control  himself  as  regards 
marrying  her." 

' '  Florence !  The  marriage  may  enable  him  to  control 
himself  in  another  way." 

"  Oh,  yes,  I  know  what  you  mean.  But  I  can't  face 
the  situation  yet.  I'm  not  equal  to  it.  I  shall  need 
several  days  longer  before  I  can  get  properly  nerved 
for  the  ordeal.  I've  got  to  tell  the  Van  Arsdales  that 
he's  engaged,  and  when  they  ask  to  whom  I  shall 


168  WOMEN  MUST  WEEP 

want  the  floor  to  open  and  swallow  me— I  know  I 
shall." 

"  But  you  needn't  tell  them " 

"About  the  Seventh  avenue  flat?  the  Greenwich 
avenue  drug  shop?  Oh,  Susie  Van  Arsdale  will  be  sure 
to  begin  to  pump  me  the  moment  she  hears  of  the  en- 
gagement. And  perhaps  the  whole  family  will  drop 
me  when  they've  learned  the  truth ;  for  the  Van  Ars- 
dales  are  leading  people,  and  Susie  goes  everywhere." 

"  If  I  were  you  I'd  drop  them  before  they  had  a 
chance  to  inflict  their  shocking  airs  upon  me,"  repjied 
Florence's  mother ;  and  she  went  alone  to  call  upon 
Annette  and  her  sisters. 

The  visit  was  not  an  enlivening  one.  Eunice's  par- 
lor was  pretty  enough,  but  there  were  things  in 
it  that  Mrs.  Ammidown  would  have  liked  to  throw 
out  of  the  window ;  as,  for  instance,  a  card-receiver 
made  of  rice  and  red  sealing-wax,  a  bunch  of  artificial 
roses  under  a  glass  shade,  and  a  Roman  warrior  in 
imitation  bronze  supporting  the  gas-burner.  The  trio 
who  received  her  were  all  visibly  fluttered.  It  seemed 
to  her  that  they  were  all  good  women,  for  being  a 
good  woman  herself  she  perhaps  had  a  subtle  power 
about  the  detection  of  others.  But  it  struck  her,  also, 
that  they  were  women  quite  outside  her  own  grooves 
of  thought  and  taste.  She  did  not  agree  with  her 
son  that  having  gone  to  a  private  school  had  made 
Annette  deport  herself  in  a  more  cultivated  style  than 
that  of  her  sisters.  She  thought  the  manners  of  the 
trio  were  as  like  as  three  peas.  If  there  was  really 
such  a  social  grade  here  as  a  middle-class,  they  all  cer- 
tainly belonged  to  it.  Their  profuse  politeness  did 
not  altogether  please  her.  She  considered  it  forced 
and  a  little  hollow.  They  were  too  anxious  to  please. 


WOMEN  MUST  WEEP  169 

The  idea  of  this  marriage  had  evidently  proved  to  all 
of  them  a  heady  wine.  They  bowed  too  low  and 
smiled  too  deep.  Mrs.  Amtnidown  began  to  feel 
strong  doubts,  before  leaving,  on  the  subject  of  her 
o\vn  wisdom  in  having  helped  to  bring  this  whole  af- 
fair about.  All  being  said,  was  it  possible  to  throw 
with  safety  impromptu  bridges  across  chasms,  after 
her  son's  daring  method  ?  But  had  not  she  aided  that 
method  most  materially?  The  chasm  was  now 
bridged,  however,  and  one  must  walk  on  the  new 
planks  as  confidently  as  one  was  able. 

This  view  of  the  case  abode  in  Mrs.  Ammidown's 
mind,  as  she  took  her  leave  that  day.  One  genial 
thought  dwelt  with  her:  there  had  been  the  true 
love-light  in  Annette's  eyes  when  she  had  spoken  to 
the  girl  of  Gordon,  or  so  at  least  his  mother  had  be- 
lieved .  .  . 

After  that  visit  everything  seemed  to  whirl  with 
Annette.  In  a  few  more  days  she  had  met  Florence 
among  what  seemed  to  her  the  patrician  grandeurs 
of  the  Ammidown  drawing-rooms,  and  Gordon's 
father  had  appeared  there  as  well,  and  pressed  a  kiss 
on  her  forehead.  She  came  away,  that  afternoon, 
with  glowing  tales  for  her  sisters  of  how  bright  and 
novel  the  home  of  her  future  bridegroom  had  ap- 
peared. Florence  had  behaved  haughtily,  but  poor 
Annette  had  never  realized  it.  She  had  taken  for 
granted  the  behavior  of  Gordon's  sister,  just  as  if  it 
had  been  some  superior  quality  of  deportment,  akin 
to  the  fine  fabrics  of  the  carpets  or  curtains,  and  hav- 
ing on  it  a  like  unaccustomed  gloss  to  that  of  the 
heavy  mahogany  balusters  in  the  hall.  She  pro- 
nounced Simeon  Ammidown  "just  too  lovely  and 
fatherly  for  anything"  in  these  later  conferences  with 


170  WOMEN  MUST  WEEP 

Eunice  and  Dora.  As  for  Mrs.  Ammidown,  it  was 
"  oh,  she  is  so  sweet  to  me!'  and  when  questions  were 
asked  her  about  Florence  the  reply  came,  after  a 
pause  of  reverential  doubt:  "Well,  Miss  Ammi- 
down is  very  pretty,  but  I  guess  she's  a  little  re- 
served." 

"Reserved,"  said  Dora.  "I  suppose  you  mean 
stuck-up." 

"  Oh,  no! "  asseverated  Annette,  for  whom  such  an 
epithet,  after  the  love-illumined  glory  of  her  ex- 
periences, had  an  almost  blasphemous  ring.  "  Oh,  no, 
indeed!  I  don't  mean  that  a  bit,  Dora!" 

"People  can  be  reserved  without  being  stuck-up," 
said  Eunice,  chidingly,  to  Dora.  "And  in  those  ele- 
gant first  families  of  ours,"  she  went  on,  plainly  im- 
pressed by  late  fervid  descriptions  of  plush  door- 
hangings  and  mirrors  that  aspired  almost  from  floor 
to  ceiling,  "I've  often  heard  of  how  there  are  some 
persons  who  .  .  a  .  .  kind  of  keep  themselves  to  them- 
selves. I  mean,  at  first"  she  added,  looking  hope- 
fully toward  Annette. 

"  This  Miss  Ammidown  is  a  very  high-toned  young 
lady,  I  guess — the  kind  that  goes  to  all  the  fashionable 
parties  given  in  the  very  finest  Fifth  avenue  circles." 

"Oh,  she  does,"  declared  Annette. 

"I  heard  her  say  to  her  mother  that  she  was  asked 
to  go  to  the  opera  this  very  evening  in  somebody  or 
other's  box.  She  had  a  note  in  her  hand,  and  showed 
it  to  her  mother,  and  Mrs.  Ammidown  said:  'Oh, 
yes,'  as  if  it  was  the  commonest  thing  in  the  world 
for  her  daughter  to  be  invited  to  go  to  the  opera  like 
that." 

"  There;  you  see?  "  said  Eunice,  looking  at  Dora. 

"My!"  said  Dora,  collapsing  visibly.    "I  \vonder 


WOMEN  MUST  WEEP  171 

what  the  opera's  like  at  night.  I've  never  been  there 
except  at  mat'nees.  Neither  have  any  of  us,  have  we, 
girls?  " 

' '  Oh,  Annette  '11  soon  go,"  smiled  Eunice.  "  I  dare 
say  she'll  have  a  box  all  to  herself,  before  very  long. 
Then  she  can  ask  us,  Dora,  if  she's  a  mind  to,  but 
perhaps  she  won't.  Perhaps  she'll  have  too  many 
grand  new  friends." 

Eunice  said  this  with  a  certain  jocose  pride,  but  An- 
nette had  no  sooner  heard  it  than  she  drew  her 
brows  together  in  a  real  scowl,  and  then,  while  her 
underlip  quivered,  she  caught  Eunice  around  the 
neck  with  one  arm.  "You  hateful  thing!"  she  ex- 
claimed. They  had  often  called  each  other  "hateful 
things"  in  the  ordinary  reprimand  and  reproach  of 
their  exquisitely  intimate  dealings.  But  when  An- 
nette's eyes  were  suddenly  charged  with  tears,  Dora 
gave  Eunice  a  severe  look. 

"  Don't,"  said  Dora.  "  The  child's  nervous  .  .  .  An- 
nette, she's  only  in  fun,  of  course." 

"  Oh,  I  know,  I  know! ' '  cried  Annette,  bursting  into 
a  great  flood  of  tears.  With  one  arm  about  Eunice's 
neck  she  reached  out  the  other  toward  Dora,  who 
sprang  near  her  in  an  instant. 

"  How  could  you,  Eunice?  "  said  Dora,  with  a  great 
frown.  "She's  been  through  so  much  this  afternoon!" 
.  .  And  then  a  droll  yet  very  tender  change  occurred 
in  the  little  group.  Dora,  who  was  always  so  gay 
and  careless,  with  her  jokes  and  her  gibes,  grew  sud- 
denly as  tearful  as  Annette.  It  was  Annette  who 
first  saw  this  unwonted  change,  and  at  once  she 
dashed  away  her  tears  and  quite  forsook  Eunice,  em- 
bracing her  other  sister. 

"Now,  Dora,  you  mustn't!"  she  exclaimed,  and 


172  WOMEN  MUST  WEEP 

shot  over  her  shoulder  a  glance  of  immense  meaning 
at  Eunice.  "Must  she,  Eunice?"  came  the  next 
words. 

"No,  120,"  Eunice  quickly  responded;  and  then,  be- 
tween them,  she  and  Annette  dried  Dora's  tears 
while  clinging  to  her,  and  while,  at  the  same  time, 
Dora  broke  into  her  characteristic  laughter  and  said 
that  she  wouldn't  be  treated  as  if  she  were  sick,  and 
that  she  wasn't  abit  more  so  than  Annette,  who  had 
had  that  awful  first  visit  to  pay  on  the  mighty  grand 
family  of  her  sweetheart. 

The  arrangements  for  Annette's  quiet  wedding 
were  made  before  Dora's  little  girl  was  born,  and  the 
young  mother  was  just  well  enough  (to  the  great  de- 
light of  her  sisters)  for  that  most  welcome  exertion 
of  her  life,  an  appearance  at  the  ceremony. 

Quiet  the  wedding  indeed  was.  Florence,  whose 
genuine  love  for  her  brother  had  now  softened  her 
into  at  least  a  transient  forgetfulness  of  the  Four 
Hundred  and  the  newspaper  Jenkinsistn  that  chron- 
icles their  weighty  enterprises,  proposed  that  An- 
nette and  Gordon  should  be  married  in  the  little 
church  at  the  corner  of  Sixth  avenue  and  Twentieth 
street,  where  she  often  performed  her  devotions,  and 
where  for  many  years  an  altruistic  spirit  had  shed 
round  its  rays  of  peace  and  good-will.  Mrs.  Heffer- 
nan  appeared  at  the  church,  but  slipped  away  after- 
ward without  speaking  to  anyone,  as  though  con- 
scious that  her  presence  would  be  more  out-of-place 
there  than  was  her  handsome  wedding-gift  at  the 
home  of  the  bride.  Not  so  Mrs.  Giebelhouse,  how- 
ever. She  was  so  impressed  with  the  superior  sort 
of  alliance  her  niece  was  making  that  she  came  ar- 
rayed in  a  bonnet  which  was  one  fluify  white  tangle  of 


WOMEN  MUST  WEEP  173 


orange-flowers,  and  mortified  Eunice  and  Dora  by 
bringing  Lizzie  in  a  new  pair  of  kid  shoes,  this  time  a 
violent  orange.  Mr.  Giebelhouse  did  his  share,  too, 
in  the  way  of  dealing  mortification.  His  dirt-caked 
nails,  so  tell-tale  of  the  florist,  were  now  quite  hid- 
den, but  the  loose-fitting,  pale-pink  gloves  that  con- 
cealed them  were  almost  as  trying  in  their  way,  and 
his  white  neck- tie  and  full  evening  suit  at  one  o'clock 
in  the  afternoon  were  a  cruel  blow  to  the  sisters  of 
the  bride.  Both  Legree  and  Kinnicutt  had  learned 
indirectly  through  Annette  (who  had  got  all  such 
points,  of  course,  from  Gordon)  that  "dress-coats 
and  low  vests  wouldn't  be  a  bit  the  right  thing." 

The  Giebelhouses,  however,  had  sent  a  set  of  real 
cut-glass,  and  this  deference  to  the  standing  of  the 
bridegroom  was  fraught  with  refreshment  after 
those  two  kitchen-clocks  not  long  ago  presented  to 
her  sisters,  notwithstanding  the  evident  snobbery  of 
the  givers'  motive. 

Mr.  and  Mrs.  Plimpsoll  were  of  the  party,  she 
looking  more  faded  and  fragile  than  ever,  he  ruddier 
and  plumper.  All  the  way  from  their  home  to  the 
church  (they  came  in  the  Elevated,  never  dreaming 
of  a  carriage)  poor  little  Mrs.  Plimpsoll  had  been 
persuading  her  lord  that  he  was  quite  right  to  pooh- 
pooh  some  new  "feeling"  of  his,  and  that  she  her- 
self had  had  it  fifty  times  if  she'd  had  it  once.  Mr. 
Plimpsoll,  who  had  secretly  thrilled  her  by  the  state- 
ment that  he  might  "fall  in  the  church  and  have  to 
be  carried  out  a  corpse,"  set  up  an  astonishing 
grumble,  after  the  ceremony  was  over,  at  not  being 
asked  to  any  subsequent  wedding-reception.  For 
her  own  part,  his  wife  felt  glad  that  no  such  enter- 
tainment would  be  held ;  for  she  herself  was  racked 


174  WOMEN  MUST  WEEP 

by  a  splitting  headache,  from  which  she  suffered  a 
good  deal  nowadays,  and  about  which  she  did  not 
dream  of  telling  Ezra  through  a  fear  of  jarring  his 
already  over-delicate  nerves. 

There  was  indeed  no  reception  whatever  in  the 
apartments  of  the  Legrees.  After  Annette  had 
changed  her  bridal  dress  for  a  travelling-suit,  only  a 
handful  of  people  saw  her  depart.  .  .  When  the  ex- 
tremely modest  little  wedding  was  over,  and  Eunice 
and  Dora  sat  discussing  it  with  their  husbands,  both 
gratitude  and  disappointment  entered  into  their  com- 
ments. They  were  glad  that  they  had  not  been  re- 
quired to  show  themselves  in  a  social  way  to  the 
Ammidowns,  and  yet  they  would  have  greatly  liked 
it  if  the  Ammidowns  might  have  brought  them  into 
acquaintance  \vith  new  people  of  an  upper  grade. 
They  had  both  bought  expensive  gowns  for  the  wed- 
ding ;  Annette's  preparations  in  the  way  of  gear  had 
cost  a  good  deal;  then  there  had  bsen  the  viands 
furnished  forth  here  at  the  house,  which  in  spite  of 
simplicity  had  entailed  clear  disbursements.  But 
still,  they  found  a  great  deal  to  speak  cheerfully 
about,  and  the  chief  subject  for  genial  converse  was 
Annette's  beauty  as  a  bride,  and  the  modish,  becom- 
ing style  of  her  robe  and  veil.  It  had  been,  as  both 
sisters  agreed,  a  much  finer  bridal-garb  than  their 
own.  The  influence  of  the  prospective  Ammidown 
connection  had  done  all  that.  Surely,  as  regarded 
many  other  new  little  glimpses  into  the  more  graceful 
aspect  of  living,  old  orders  of  things  had  yielded 
place  to  new. 

Annette  had  been  almost  a  dry-eyed  bride.  Remem- 
bering how  tearless  she  was  at  their  own  weddings, 
her  sisters  did  not  think  her  serenity  strange.  But 


WOMEN  MUST  WEEP  175 

they  could  not  help  wondering  if  her  separation  from 
them  would  in  the  future  be  painful;  for  it  was  all 
arranged  that  she  should  live  hereafter  in  the  home 
of  her  husband. 

"Just  think,"  said  Eunice,  "  what  a  crying-spell  she 
had  yesterday,  and  how  she  clung  to  us  and  said  she 
couldn't  leave  us." 

"Excitement  kept  her  up  to-day, "said  Dora.  "I 
do  hope  she'll  be  happy  off  there,  all  alone." 

' '  All  alone ! ' '  jeered  Kinnicutt ,  amiably.  ' '  Why  on 
earth  do  you  put  it  that  way  ?  " 

"  Oh,  I  can't  help  putting  it  that  way,"  said  Dora, 
and  her  eyes  filled  as  she  rose  and  caught  her  baby, 
which  its  nurse  (the  one  servant  she  had)  just  then 
brought  to  her. 

Eunice  \vent  to  the  baby  and  began  cooing  to  it 
and  kissing  it,  while  Legree  placidly  said,  looking 
toward  his  wife : 

"Annette  won't  be  lonely.  But  perhaps  she  may 
feel  so  when  she  comes  here  on  future  visits." 

Dora,  absorbed  with  the  baby,  did  not  hear  him. 
But  Eunice  lifted  her  head  and  murmured,  "  Oh,  Aus- 
tin! Ho  wean  you?" 

Later,  when  he  was  alone  with  his  wife,  I^egree 
said,  curtly  and  harshly : 

"  You  mustn't  be  surprised  if  Annette  snubs  you  a 
good  deal,  now  she's  married  into  that  high-toned 
set." 

Eunice  shook  her  head.  "Such  a  thing  couldn't 
be,"  she  returned.  A  certain  chill  brutality  on  her 
husband's  part,  when  they  were  away  from  observ- 
ers, had  become  to  her  an  affair  drearily  usual. 

"Oh,  couldn't  it  be?"  said  her  cold  tormentor. 
"You  just  \vait .  .  .  By  the  bye,  did  Annette  ever  jilt 
that  Chivver  chap  ?  " 


176  WOMEN  MUST  WEEP 

"Jilt  him?  Of  course  not,  Austin?  What  makes 
you  think  such  a  thing  ?  " 

"  He  looked  so  asinine  there  in  the  church.  Did  you 
notice  the  long  lace  he  pulled  ?  " 

"He  did  seem  a  little  sad.  I  guess  he  liked  Annette. 
I—" 

"And  she  threw  him  over  to  marry  a  man  -with 
more  money,  Just  as  you'd  have  thrown  me  over — 
just  as  Dora  'd  have  thrown  Harvey." 

"Austin,  please ' 

"  Oh,  bosh ;  you  needn't  deny  it.  I  know.  All  you 
women  are  tarred  with  the  same  stick." 

"Thank  you,"  said  Eunice,  biting  her  lips  and 
giving  a  few  short  nods.  If  her  days  of  revolt  were 
over,  she  was  not  so  cowed  but  that  the  difficulty  of 
self-control  now  and  then  made  itself  apparent  with 
her. 

"  And  that  Ammidown  girl,"  swept  on  Legree,  in 
lys  crisp  and  frigid  style  ;  "do  you  call  her  a  lady  ?" 

"  Wasn't  she  polite  to  you  ?"  replied  Eunice,  with 
the  old  rebellious  spirit  at  work  again  under  expected 
slurs. 

"  Polite  to  me  I  Stuff!  Who  was  she  polite  to  ?  Not 
you,  certainly.  Why  she  hardly  gave  you  the  time  o ' 
day,  with  her  nose  cocked  in  the  air  and  her  long 
arms  akimbo,  and  the  gloves  on  'em  reaching  almost 
to  her  ears." 

"  I  thought  her  very  prettily  dressed.  And  people 
can't  help  their  manners.  Florence  Ammidown  didn't 
mean  to  be  rude," 

"Didn't  she?"  Here  Legree  shot  out  a  little  keen, 
bleak  laugh.  "Well,  perhaps  not.  Unless  I'm  all 
wrong,  Annette  '11  get  a  good  taste  of  her  airs  before 
she's  through  with  her." 


WOMEN  MUST  WEEP  177 

He  had  no  grudge  against  Annette ;  he  liked  the 
Ammidown  connection,  was  proud  of  it,  and  greatly 
wished  to  keep  in  its  good  books.  But  having  his 
tilt  at  Eunice  was  quite  an  opposite  affair.  Doubt- 
less he  could  not  for  his  life  have  told  why  it  gave  him 
pleasure  to  wound  her  like  this,  and  then  to  watch, 
as  it  were,  the  color  of  her  blood.  For  Eunice  seldom 
took  his  little  attacks  with  unconcern  or  even  with 
mildness;  always  she  would  have  her  fling  in  the  way 
of  some  retort. 

She  had  it  now.  "You  seem  to  be  jealous,"  she 
said,  "that  one  of  us  should  have  got  married  into 
the  higher  circles." 

"  Higher  circles !"  he  sneered.  "  The  son  of  an  editor 
who's  dabbled  in  politics — and  usually  been  beaten,  at 
that." 

"Oh,"  laughed  Eunice,  trying  not  to  show  that  she 
was  angry,  though  her  laugh  was  much  louder  than 
she  guessed  and  her  cheeks  had  grown  hot  and  red, 
"I  think  I'c?  rather  be  Mr.  Simeon  Ammidown's  son 
than  the  cousin  of  two  or  three  shop-girls. 

A  tightened  look  showed  itself  round  Legree's  thin 
lips.  Of  all  other  subjects  he  was  most  sensitive  on 
this  one,  the  plebeian  lowness  (for  so  he  held  it)  of  his 
own  origin. 

"You're  not  so  far  up  in  the  world  yourself,"  he 
tossed  back,"  that  you  can  afford  to  throw  mud  at 
me.  I  guess  if  you  looked  into  the  record  of  your  own 
family  you'd  find  there  girls  that  did  a  good  deal 
worse  than  earn  their  livings  in  dry  goods  stores." 

Eunice  clinched  her  hands.  This  seemed  an  appall- 
ing insult ;  it  towered  in  sinister  height  over  all  that 
she  had  received  of  late— and  they  had  not  been  few. 
Legree's  cruel  domestic  moods  came  upon  him  every 


178  WOMEN  MUST  WEEP 

two  or  three  days.  After  a  fashion  his  wife  had 
grown  used  to  them,  but  although  her  innate  ten- 
dency to  advise,  supervise  and  dictate  was  now  quelled 
and  partially  benumbed,  she  still  found  docility  a 
difficult  role.  Poor  Eunice  was  like  a  colt  that  ac- 
cepts its  harness  but  still  preserves  definite  views  on 
the  subject  of  the  lash-string,  She  had  reached  that 
stage  of  the  unhappy  wifehood  when  she  sometimes 
held  guilty  conferences  with  herself  on  the  question 
of  how  much  heavier  a  yoke  of  imposition  her  love 
would  endure  before  it  fell  powerless  on  the  roadside 
of  human  toleration.  She  had  begun,  in  other  words, 
to  question  the  quality  and  vitality  of  her  affection 
for  the  man  she  had  married;  and  in  such  reveries 
there  is  always  the  peril  of  disgust. 

"  Pa  and  ma  never  had  alow  woman  as  their  blood- 
relation,"  she  said,  going  unsteadily  to  ward  the  door 
of  the  room .  ' '  They  were  both ' ' 

But  before  she  could  speak  another  word,  Legree, 
with  his  voice  sharp  as  a  knife-blade  struck  in : 

"Oh,  then  you  want  to  state  that  my  blood-rela- 
tions are  low  women  ?  I'd  like  to  tell  some  of  'em 
that.  Perhaps  they'd  get  up  a  law-suit  against  you 
for  libel.  It  would  be  a  good  way  of  clipping  that 
tongue  o'  yours.  You  need  a  real  up-and-down  scare. 
Most  foul-mouthed  females  do.  I'd  like  to  see  the 
screws  put  on  you.  I  guess  I'll  try  it,  Justin  the  way 
o'  self-protection. 

Quivering  and  flushed,  Eunice  stood  at  the  thresh- 
old which  she  had  meant  to  cross. 

''You  don't  need  any  self-protection,  Austin,"  she 
said.  "You're  quite  able  to  fight  your  own  battles, 
and  to  win  them,  as  well— like  a  rowdy." 

After  that  she  passed  from  the  room,  leaving  him 


WOMEN  MUST  WEEP  179 

alone  with  his  indestructible  temper  and  gelid  smile. 

This  was  what  their  life  together  had  of  late  be- 
come. Between  intervals  of  comparative  peace  a 
household  horror  would  lift  its  venomous  head. 
Each  time  the  apparition  was  to  Eunice  more  fright- 
ful. And  each  time,  no  doubt,  a  new  audacious  fea- 
ture of  dissension  would  crop  up  out  of  their  bitter 
talks.  The  end  was  not  yet,  Eunice  would  muse; 
and  with  sinking  heart  she  would  put  to  her  own 
anxiety  the  question— "  What  sort  of  an  end  will  it 
be  when  it  conies  ?" 

Meanwhile  she  was  armed  with  a  strong  safeguard. 
She  had  not  ceased  to  love  her  husband,  terribly  as  he 
sometimes  would  shake  the  roots  and  fibres  of  her 
affection. 


XIII 

After  Annette  and  Gordon  returned  from  their  wed- 
ding-trip they  went  to  dwell  at  the  Ammidown  home. 
Her  separation  from  her  sisters  proved  a  great  trial 
to  the  young  wife.  She  was  almost  absurdly  proud 
of  the  new  conditions  of  life  in  which  she  found  herself, 
and  would  describe  that  or  this  little  luxurious  detail 
with  blended  relish  and  fervor.  But  in  spite  of 
changes  at  once  novel  and  refreshingly  cultured,  her 
heart  hungered  after  the  old  companionships.  She 
had  married  in  a  manner  for  ambition,  though  love 
had  been  her  chief  incentive  for  becoming  Gordon 
Ammidown's  wife.  Still,  it  was  so  hard  to  live  under 
a  different  roof  from  ' '  the  girls . ' '  Her  mo  ther-in-law 
did  not  make  it  harder,  but  Florence  did  not  make  it 
in  the  least  easier,  and  there  were  times  when  a  cer- 
tain reserve  and  aloofness  in  the  demeanor  of  her  hus- 
band's father  caused  her  to  remember  that  she  was  of 
a  race  which  the  world  held  unequal  to  his  own. 
Annette,  like  many  young  women  of  just  her  class 
and  type,  looked  on  social  elevation  with  a  romantic 
eye.  She  felt  distinct  gratitude  toward  Gordon  for 
having  let  her  share  his  superior  name  and  place. 
The  Ammidowns  brought  her  into  contact  with  a 


WOMEN  MUST  WEEP  181 

more  refined  set  of  people  than  any  she  had  ever 
known  before.  There  was  something  exquisite  in  the 
way  she  still  clung  to  the  company  of  her  sisters,  how- 
ever, and  in  their  entire  freedom  from  envy  as  they 
listened  to  accounts  of  a  society  that  Florence  may 
have  thought  plain  and  poky  but  that  seemed  quite 
brilliantly  the  opposite  to  her  brother's  young  bride. 
Brilliantly  the  opposite  it  also  seemed  to  Eunice  and 
Dora.  One  day  the  latter  said  to  Annette,  while  she 
was  hugging  and  fondling  her  tiny  and  pretty  little 
niece : 

"Harvey  and  I  are  sorry  we've  christened  the 
baby  Eunice.  We  think  it  would  have  been  much 
better  policy  to  have  called  her  Annette,  after  the 
great  lady  of  the  family.  Some  day,  when  Gordon's 
a  millionaire,  you  and  he  might " 

"  Oh,  Dora,  do  stop!  "  cried  Annette. 

"No,  let  her  go  on,"  said  Eunice,  with  majestic 
sarcasm. 

"In  the  first  place,"  averred  Annette,  "I'm  no 
more  a  great  lady  than  I'm  the  President's  wife." 

"  Perhaps  you  may  be  that,  some  day,"  said  Dora. 
"  Who  knows?  You've  married  a  clever  man."  Some- 
how she  would  have  said  "  a  smart  man,"  not  long 
since,  but  with  that  startling  adaptability  of  the  Amer- 
ican woman,  she  and  Eunice  had  of  late  both  bor- 
rowed new  forms  of  expression  from  Annette's 
altered  yet  half  unconscious  phraseology. 

"So  has  Eunice  married  a  clever  man,"  declared 
Annette.  "Austin  might  be  almost  anything,  if  he 
chose  to  try." 

"  Austin  isn't  educated  enough,"  said  Eunice,  with 
a  sad  frankness  that  made  each  of  her  sisters  turn 
on  her  a  glance  of  surprise.  And  each  felt  at  the 


182  WOMEN  MUST  WEEP 


same  instant  that  Legree's  wife  would  not  have 
spoken  thus  of  him  three  months  ago. 

Dora  let  her  characteristic  humor  kindly  cloak,  as  it 
were,  the  melancholy  little  effect  of  awkwardness 
which  Eunice's  bit  of  candor  had  produced.  "  I'mleftto 
take  for  granted,"  she  broke  out,  leaning  over  to  the 
baby,  where  it  lay  on  Annette's  lap,  and  giving  its 
wee  frock-front  one  or  two  quick  maternal  touches, 
"that  my  poor  Harvey  is  simply  without  a  ray  of 
brains." 

"No  one  would  dream  of  thinking  that,"  smiled 
Annette.  "And  only  yesterday  Gordon  was  saying 
what  a  good,  warm-hearted  fellow  Harvey  is." 

"Thank  you,"  returned  Dora,  with  mock  humility. 
"I  hope  that  means  they'll  soon  raise  his  salary  on 
the  Monitor.  Baby  asked  me  this  morning  (didn't 
you,  baby?)  whether  the  value  of  his  services 
wouldn't  increase  as  the  establishment  continued  to 
employ  him." 

"  Those  are  very  big  words  for  such  a  little  mouth," 
said  Annette,  giving  her  charge  a  fresh  hug,  "Auntie 
doesn't  know  how  to  answer  them,  or  Uncle  Gordon 
either,  I'm  afraid.  It  must  advise  its  dear  papa  to 
talk  to  Mr.  Ammidown  himself." 

Kinnicutt  had  told  Dora,  of  late,  that  he  really 
thought  of  doing  so.  But  Dora,  though  she  would 
have  liked  ampler  means  for  the  management  of  her 
little  home,  never  allowed  monetary  longings  to 
trouble  her.  Unlike  Eunice,  she  had  been  perfectly 
happy  since  her  marriage.  She  thanked  destiny  with 
silent  joy  for  having  given  her  a  mate  whose  daily 
dealings  were  remote  from  the'  least  inclement  mood. 
If  anything,  her  beloved  Harvey  was  too  amiable. 
She  had  accused  herself  several  times  of  shameful 


WOMEN  MUST  WEEP  183 

peevishness  just  before  and  after  the  birth  of  her 
child.  And  he  had  been  so  tenderly  tolerant!  She 
asked  herself,  sometimes,  if  ever  any  woman  before 
now  had  had  so  faultless  a  husband.  He  might  not 
have  the  cold,  strong,  machine-like  mind  of  Austin 
Legree.  He  couldn't  for  his  life  have  invented  any- 
thing like  that  wondrous  Opaline  Oil,  which  people 
were  beginning  to  buy  so,  and  which  promised  to 
coin  thousands  for  its  shrewd  patentee.  But  he  was 
an  energetic  young  journalist,  if  not  so  tremendously 
able  a  one,  and  his  night  work  (which  he  really  did  not 
need  always  to  do,  as  he  had  told  her,  and  which  occa- 
sionally would  keep  him  out  quite  late)  was  a  proof 
of  how  he  toiled  and  meant  to  go  on  toiling  for  the 
girl  he  had  \vedded. 

It  was  in  the  midst  of  thoughts  and  convictions 
like  these  that  a  fearful  blow  came  to  Dora.  She 
could  not  have  felt  a  greater  faith  in  her  husband's 
complete  constancy  and  singleness  of  affection  than 
at  the  very  hour  which  shattered  such  faith  for  good 
and  all. 

The  spring  had  set  in  very  raw  and  damp,  so  that 
now  and  then  of  an  evening  Kinnicutt  would  wear 
his  thick  overcoat  when  he  went  out  of  doors  on 
that  "night  work,"  which  Dora  had  grown  cordially 
to  hate.  For  the  cessation  of  these  nocturnal  out- 
ings, Dora  would  have  been  quite  bold  enough  to 
plead  with  the  elder  Ammidown  had  the  young 
reporter  himself  only  permitted.  But  Kinnicutt 
would  shake  his  head  and  bid  her  wait.  There  was 
time  enough,  he  would  say,  and  it  might  be  bad 
policy  to  push  things  too  much  just  yet.  Those 
words  of  his  afterward  returned  to  her  with  misera- 
ble mockery. 


184  WOMEN  MUST  WEEP 

On  the  morning  when  she  found  out  the  truth,  or 
at  least  no  slight  part  of  the  truth,  her  baby  was 
asleep  in  its  cradle  beside  her  own  bed;  and  on  re- 
entering,  after  a  brief  absence,  the  room  where  the 
child  lay,  she  was  beset  by  a  sudden  sense  of  atmos- 
pheric chill.  Having  certain  things  to  do  elsewhere, 
she  went  hastily  into  a  closet  and  drew  from  it  her 
husband's  thick  over-coat,  which  he  had  worn  on 
the  previous  evening.  As  she  let  the  heavy  garment 
fall  on  the  cradle,  it  occurred  to  her  in  a  fondly  poetic 
way  that  this  big  fabric  would  not  merely  be  shield- 
ing from  a  material  point  of  view,  but  that  some 
sweet  fatherly  spell  of  protection  might  be  born  from 
it  as  well. 

She  was  about  to  quit  the  side  of  the  cradle  and 
the  room  also,  when  a  small  folded  paper  slipped 
from  the  pocket  of  the  coat  down  upon  the  floor. 
Usually  she  had  by  this  time  brushed  with  thrifty 
care  any  garment  which  Harvey  had  worn  yesterday 
and  to-day  abandoned.  But  this  morning  other 
duties  had  stood  in  the  way  of  such  housewifely  work. 
She  glanced  with  regret  at  a  spot  or  two  of  dried 
slush  on  the  coat,  and  in  so  doing  she  saw  the  fallen 
paper  and  stooped  to  pick  it  up. 

She  smiled  as  she  did  this,  remembering  how  he  had 
spoken  to  her  more  than  once  of  the  remorseless 
manner  in  which  she  would  "go  through"  all  his 
pockets.  Ah,  the  dear  boy  had  only  been  making  one 
of  his  jokes.  He  had  never  written  or  received  a  line, 
since  their  marriage,  of  which  he  \vould  be  ashamed 
to  tell  her not  he  ! 

The  paper  seemed  somehow  to  unfold  of  itself  in  her 
hand.  She  had  not  thought  about  reading  it;  she  did 
not  think  of  doing  so  now  as  her  glance  fell  upon  its 
open  page. 


WOMEN  MUST  WEEP  185 

Then,  seeing  his  name  in  a  certain  incredible  con- 
text, she  started  like  one  who  has  been  stabbed.  Her 
fresh  young  face  whitened  to  the  lips  while  she  read 
on  and  on.  It  was  a  letter  three  pages  long.  It 
told  of  an  appointment  which  could  not  be  kept 
last  night  in  a  certain  restaurant  many  streets 
away.  It  gave  excuses  mixed  with  an  appall- 
ing tenderness.  It  bristled  with  references  to 
former  meetings  on  former  evenings.  It  glared  with 
one  or  two  allusions  to  herself.  It  reeked  with  co- 
quetries, with  silly  and  yet  damning  epithets  of  en- 
dearment. 

Dora  shuddered  audibly  as  she  hid  the  paper  in  her 
gown.  Almost  at  once  she  tore  it  forth  again  and 
re-read  it  entirely,  with  lips  that  worked  and  eyes 
that  blazed. 

Then  she  thought  of  Eunice,  and  hurried  from  the 
room.  Having  reached  the  next  threshold,  she  paused 
there,  and  a  generous  pang  pierced  her  heart,  tor- 
tured though  it  was  with  its  own  griefs.  Ah,  had 
not  Eunice  already  enough  to  bear?  .  .  Just  then 
she  heard  the  cries  of  her  awakened  child.  She  went 
back  to  the  cradle,  took  baby  from  it,  and  gave 
succor  to  the  tiny,  hungry  mouth.  At  the  same  time 
her  eyes  began  to  stream  with  a  tempest  of  tears. 
It  was  a  sight  to  have  melted  a  soul  of  bronze,  this 
young  mother  seated  suckling  her  baby  at  a  breast 
which  had  just  been  dealtsodeep  if  viewless  a  wound. 

That  evening  Kinnicutt  came  gayly  into  the  room 
where  she  sat,  trying  to  sew,  with  baby  in  a  rocking- 
chair  close  beside  her,  crowing  and  cooing  and  flinging 
into  the  air  two  coraline  little  legs. 

He  stooped  over  the  baby  and  kissed  it  and  played 
with  it.  While  he  did  so  Dora  put  aside  her  work, 
rose  and  slipped  away. 


186  WOMEN  MUST  WEEP 

Surprised  at  her  disappearance,  he  presently  sought 
and  found  her  in  the  next  room.  Her  head  was  slight- 
ly bent  over  a  high-standing  wicker  work-basket, 
and  one  of  her  hands  appeared  to  fumble  among  its 
contents  as  though  in  search  of  something.  But 
really  the  posture  and  the  movement  of  the  hand 
were  both  pathetic  little  feints.  He  came  up  behind 
her  and  put  his  arm  about  her  waist.  She  trembled, 
and  a  doubt  instantly  entered  his  mind.  But  when 
his  lips  had  touched  her  cheek  and  she  neither  ac- 
quiesced nor  recoiled,  then  he  doubted  no  longer;  he 
was  sure.  In  spite  of  all  the  galliard  levity  of  his 
nature  and  temperament,  guilt  sounded  its  monition, 
and  he  became  sure. 

"Well,  what  is  it?  "  he  said,  with  his  thoughts  fly- 
ing to  seek  the  real  cause  of  her  discovery,  since 
already  conscience  had  convinced  him  that  discovery 
was  the  cause  of  the  change  in  her.  Then  he  added, 
with  a  low  laugh  that  rang  piteously  feeble:  "I 
hope  you  haven't  heard  any  more  bad  news  about 
the  goings-on  between  Eunice  and  Austin  ?  " 

"No,"  she  said.    "  But  there's  bad  news  of  another 
sort."     She  was  twisting   her   hands  together  as 
she  now  turned  and  faced  him,  and  he  saw  a  quiver 
or  two  at  the  edges  of  her  nostrils. 
"  What  bad  news  ?  "  he  asked. 

"I  found  a  letter  you'd  forgotten  to  burn  up,  or 
tear  up,  or  whatever  you  please.  I  found  it  in  the 
pocket  of  your  thick  coat."  Her  voice  had  a  coldness 
mechanic  and  dull.  "I  didn't  find  it,  though,  after 
all,"  she  went  on,  with  a  smile  of  scornful  weariness, 
remotely  unlike  the  gay,  brisk  Dora  he  had  left  that 
morning  at  his  fireside.  "  It  dropped  on  the  floor  as 
I  was  throwing  the  coat  over  baby's  cradle.  I  never 


WOMEN  MUST  WEEP  187 


thought  of  reading  it  until  it  seemed  to  open  in  my 
hand  of  its  own  accord.  Perhaps,"  she  added,  in  a 
very  solemn  and  forlorn  voice,  "  God  opened  it  there, 
between  my  fingers,  Harvey  Kinnicutt,  and  showed 
me  the  kind  of  man— the  kind  of  husband— you 
are." 

There  was  no  accusation  in  her  tones ;  there  was 
only  an  immense  sorrow,  and  the  signs  of  a  disillu- 
sionment no  less  mighty. 

Then  she  either  heard,  or  thought  that  she  heard, 
the  baby's  voice,  and  hurried  away  to  the  spot  where 
he  had  first  come  upon  her  with  the  sewing  in  her 
hand.  She  discovered  that  the  little  creature  had  in- 
deed altered  its  merry  Growings  to  a  kind  of  whimper. 
.  .  But  perhaps  it  had  not  really  cried ;  perhaps  the 
mother's  heart  had  merely  dreamed,  for  certain,  sud- 
den and  subtle  reasons,  that  it  had  called  her.  Some- 
how in  the  misery  of  being  forced  to  tell  him  of  the 
outrage  he  had  put  upon  her,  she  may  have  felt  that 
her  child  was  a  natural  if  senseless  defendant.  She 
took  the  baby  from  the  rocking-chair  in  which  it  lay 
nested,  and  clasping  it  to  her  breast  seated  herself  in 
the  same  chair.  She  wondered  if  he  would  follow 
her  and  speak  to  her  while  she  sat  like  this,  but  told 
herself  that  she  did  not  much  care  whether  he  came 
or  not.  Presently  he  did  come,  however,  and  stood 
near  her.  She  lifted  her  eyes  to  his  face  for  an  instant 
and  saw  that  he  was  much  paler. 

"Dora,"  he  began,  "I  deserve  to  have  you  hate  me." 

"I  don't  hate  you,"  she  answered.  "But  it's  all 
over,  now ;  it's  all  over. 

"You  mean  our  love?"  he  asked,  after  quite  a 
pause. 

"I  mean  my  love.     You  never  had  any — for  me." 


188  WOMEN  MUST  WEEP 

"Dora,"  he  protested,  "I  never  loved  a  living  wo- 
man till  I  met  you !" 

"And  you  met  her  afterward.    I  see." 

"No,  no !"  He  flung  himself  on  his  knees  beside  her 
chair  and  did  the  cowardly  thing  men  of  his  moral 
build  so  often  do  when  unmasked.  "  It's  true  I  met 
her  afterward,  but  I  never  loved  her,  or  dreamed  of 
even  caring  for  her.  She  led  me  on ;  she  tempted  me ; 
she  used  all  kinds  of  arts.  Of  course  I've  been  a  weak 
fool.  But  you  must  forgive  me  this  once,  Dora! 
After  all,  a  man  is  only  a  man !  And  I  swear  to  you 
I'll  never  exchange  one  word  with  her  again  as  long 
as  I  live.  .  .  Dora,  why  don't  you  speak  ?" 

"Speak?  I've  nothing  to  say." 

"  Give  me  your  hand  then.  Don't  keep  it  back  from 
me  like  that!" 

"I'm  holding  Baby  with  it.  But  I  couldn't  give  it 
to  you  even  if  I  wasn't." 

"Why  not?.,  why  not?"  His  eyes  fiilled  with 
tears.  To  some  men  tears  would  have  brought  a 
repelling  effect  of  weakness.  With  him  it  was  quite 
the  opposite ;  they  became  simply  an  accentuation  of 
his  native  winsome  mediocrity.  Dora  did  not  know 
it  (what  woman  would  ever  tell  herself  such  a  hu- 
miliating truth  ? )  but  it  was  this  very  mediocrity 
that  had  made  her  love  him.  His  distinct  expression 
of  it  appealed  to  her  now.  He  went  on  speaking,  and 
sobbed  like  a  girl  as  he  spoke.  He  was  tremendously  in 
earnest,  and  concealed  nothing,  though  his  lachry- 
mose frankness  might  have  extended  itself  to  the 
avowal  of  other  faults,  during  the  brief  term  of  his 
marriage,  no  less  grave  than  this  one.  As  it  was,  he 
never  felt  a  twinge  for  the  commission  of  those  faults. 
He  was  one  of  those  light  beings  who  sometimes  ap- 


WOMEN  MUST  WEEP  189 

pear  to  have  been  created  for  the  express  purpose  of 
breaking  any  strong  and  constant  heart  with  which 
they  are  brought  into  contact.  It  was  impossible  to 
be  disgusted  by  his  childishness  as  he  knelt  and  begged 
for  pardon,  since  there  was  an  element  of  purely  na- 
tive grace  in  its  very  self-surrender.  Among  other 
walks  of  life  he  would  have  been  a  born  courtier,  and 
the  king  whose  mistress  he  had  alienated  by  his  win- 
some smile  might  have  condoned  the  theft  because  of 
his  picturesque  and  fascinating  remorse.  He  avoided 
(and  without  the  least  shadow  of  shrewd  design)  just 
that  course  of  self-defensive  reproach  which  might 
have  petrified  his  hearer  instead  of  melting  her.  The 
husband  who  can  infamously  injure  his  wife  and  yet 
convince  her  that  he  holds  himself  both  a  monumen- 
tal scamp  for  having  done  so  and  a  scamp,  too,  with- 
out one  least  residuum  of  resentment  at  being  found 
out,  is  a  husband  far  more  dangerous  after  his  fash- 
ion than  the  profligate  who  betrays  her  and  then 
bravely  snaps  his  fingers  in  her  face.  For  all  wives 
are  not  Eunices,  who  feel  the  almost  deathless  quality 
of  their  love  resist  with  hardy  toughness  of  fibre  ruf- 
fianly inflictions.  Others  are  Doras,  who  can  stanch 
what  has  seemed  the  mortal  blow  given  to  their  love 
by  a  recognition  of  intense  mingled  repentance  and 
self-abasement  on  the  part  of  him  who  has  wounded 
them. 

When  Kinnicutt  told  her  that  he  would  die  of  a  broken 
heart  if  she  no  longer  cared  for  him,  Dora  had  an 
abrupt  frightened  thrill ;  but  when  he  groaned  that 
she  ought  to  have  mercy  on  him  because  she  was  ever 
so  much  higher  and  better  and  stronger  than  he  was, 
then  she  let  one  hand  drop  over  the  side  of  the  rock- 
ing-chair so  that  he  could  clasp  it  between  both  his 


190  WOMEN  MUST  WEEP 

own  and  bathe  it  with  his  copious  and  really  genuine 
tears. 

While  he  so  clasped  and  bathed  it  there  seemed 
nothing  unduly  puerile  in  his  whimpered  vocatives 
and  questions.  "Oh,  my  shamefully-treated  little 
wife !  Oh,  what  a  perfect  wretch  I've  been  to  you. 
And  I  dare  say  Eunice  knows  all  about  it,  and  what 
on  earth  does  she  think  ?  Or  perhaps  you've  only  told 
Annette  ?  Which  of  them  did  you  tell  ?  Don't  keep  back 
the  truth  from  me— don't  spare  me— I  don't  deserve 
to  be  spared ! " 

"  I  haven't  told  either  of  them,"  came  Dora's  reply. 
"I  haven't  told  anybody— but  Baby."  For  the  first 
time  her  tears  came,  now,  but  she  tried  not  to  let  him 
see  their  moist  rush. 

He  did  see,  however,  and  sprang  to  his  feet.  Then, 
while  his  arms  were  about  her,  she  chokedly  said : 
"Now,  Harvey,  remember  that  if  I  forgive  this  once  I 
do  it  because  you  tell  me  you've  seen  your  sin— the 
greatness  of  your  sin — and  because  you  mean  to  crush 
down  every  bad  thought,  hereafter,  that  any  bad  wo- 
man may  rouse  in  you."  Her  voice  was  so  strangled, 
at  this  point,  that  she  could  scarcely  use  it  at  all. 
"Do  .  .  do  you  recollect  the  words  of .  .  of .  .  our 
marriage-service?"  she  pursued,  with  her  lips  in  a  ten- 
der tremor  and  her  eyes  at  last  recklessly  streaming. 
"  Do  you  recollect  them,  Harvey  ?— 'and  forsaking  all 
others,  cleave  only  to  her?'  You  swore  those  words. 
You  swore  them,  but  you  haven't  kept  the  oath. 
You  say  it  was  some  madness  in  you  that  made  you 
break  it — some  madness  that  wasn't  any  part  of  your 
love  for  me.  You  say  that  your  love  for  me  still  is. 
Then  all  the  rest  of  the  lives  we  live  together  must  be 
pn  your  side  not  only  a  fight  against  this  madness, 


WOMEN  MUST  WEEP  191 

Harvey,  but  a  fight  in  -which  you  win.  Do  you  under- 
stand me?  If— if  the  flesh  rises  up  you  must  grind  the 
flesh  under  your-  heel.  Do  you  understand  ?  Because 
if  you  don't,  or  won't,  or  can't,  then  I  can  take  Baby 
and  go  to  Eunice  with  her,  and  live  as  best  I  may.".  .  . 

But  he  told  her,  with  kisses  and  many  vows,  both 
of  present  and  future  penitence,  that  he  did  under- 
stand and  would  never  swerve  from  perfect  loyalty 
to  her  henceforth. 

She  believed  him;  or,  rather,  under  emotional  stress 
and  a  yearning  for  a  return  of  the  old  happiness 
which  that  state  engendered,  she  believed  that  she 
believed  him. 

A  step  made  Kinnicutt  cease  from  his  contrite  ca- 
resses. The  interruption  was  a  very  commonplace 
one.  The  single  servant  in  their  little  flat  came  to 
tell  them  that  dinner  was  getting  cold. 

"  Take  Baby,  Susan,"  said  Dora,  giving  the  child  to 
the  servant  and  knowing  with  secret  shame  what  a 
tale  her  wet,  flushed  cheeks  had  already  told.  "  Come 
to  dinner,  Harvey,"  she  went  on.  "Yes"  (glancing 
at  a  near  clock)  "it  is  past  the  time,  isn't  it."  She 
was  going  to  add  "Why  didn't  you  tell  us  before, 
Susan?  "  but  that,  it  struck  her,  would  have  been  too 
drearily  absurd.  Susan  took  the  child,  and  as  it  saw 
her  broad-blown  face,  it  laughed,  glad  to  be  within 
the  big,  toilful  arms  that  already  it  knew  as  well  as 
its  mother's  frailer  ones.  In  another  moment  Dora 
passed  toward  the  dinning-room.  But  pausing  and 
turning,  after  a  step  or  two,  she  saw  Kinnicutt  throw 
something  small  and  pink  into  the  red,  packed  coals 
of  the  grate. 

"What  was  that?"  she  asked,  suddenly^  and  with 
an  unwilling  note  of  suspicion  in  her  voice — one  which 


192  WOMEN  MUST  WEEP 


was  really  the  key-note  of  many  days  of  life  yet  un- 
dawned  between  himself  and  her. 

Harvey  started  a  little,  and  then  turned  to  her  with 
an  abrupt,  strained  smile. 

"Oh,  nothing,"  he  said.  "  Only  a  little  faded  rose- 
bud that  I  picked  up  on  Sixth  avenue  a  minute  or 
two  befo.re  I  came  in.  Someone  had  dropped  it,  you 
know." 

It  was  indeed  a  little  faded  rose-bud,  but  he  hadn't 
picked  it  up  on  Sixth  avenue  a  minute  or  two  before 

he  came  in.  He  had But  no  matter;  it  did  not  in 

any  way  concern  the  "writer  of  that  horrible  letter; 
it  concerned  someone  else,  and  someone  feminine  as 
well. 

During  dinner  he  asked  her  for  that  same  horrible 
letter,  and  she  gave  it  to  him.  He  left  the  room, 
burned  it  in  the  same  grate  where  he  had  burned  the 
rose,  and  then  returned. 

"You're  so  good— so  sweet  and  kind  and  merciful," 
he  said-,  while  he  re-seated  himself  at  their  little  table. 
Dora  looked  at  him.  Her  eyes  were  shining  quite 
brightly,  but  her  face  was  still  very  sad.  She  made 
him  no  answer,  and  tried  to  appear  as  if  she 
were  eating.  But  in  reality  she  ate  only  a  few 
morsels,  choking  even  those  down. 

He,  on  the  other  hand,  partook  of  an  excellent 
dinner,  and  during  the  hour  or  two  that  succeeded 
the  meal,  fell  asleep  in  a  big  arm-chair,  and  now  and 
then  produced  a  mellow,  comfortable  little  snore. 


XIV 

On  the  following  day  both  of  Dora's  sisters  met  and 
talked  with  her,  and  both  told  her  that  she  was 
somehow  not  looking  herself.  But  Dora  merely 
laughed  and  said:  "Oh,  I'm  more  of  a  housekeeper, 
now  Baby's  come;  you  must  remember  that." 

Annette,  as  usual,  had  some  incident  of  social 
gayety  to  record.  This  time  it  was  a  large  dinner  at 
which  she  and  her  husband  had  lately  been  present. 

"Mercy!  "  said  Eunice,  after  certain  details  of  the 
banquet  had  been  given.  "I  don't  see  how  you  sat 
through  all  those  courses.  I'd  have  felt  like  bursting 
if  I'd  eaten  them  all." 

"Oh,  I  just  nibbled  at  some,"  said  Annette.  "Be- 
sides, every  now  and  then,  you  know,  I  took  a  sip  of 
wine." 

"Oh,  they  had  wine,  too?"  said  Eunice,  as  though 
human  credence  were  now  being  strained  to  its  ut- 
most. 

'What  kind  was  it?"  Dora  asked. 

" Did  they  have  wine  and  what  kind  was  it?  "  mer- 
rily mocked  Annette.  "  Why,  girls,  they  had  six  kinds 
of  wine." 

"  Six  kinds! "  repeated  Eunice  and  Dora  in  a  breath. 

Id 


194  WOMEN  MUST  WEEP 

"And  such  lovely  flowers,"  Annette  \vent  on.  Then 
she  described  the  luxury  and  color  of  these  embellish- 
ments; but  as  she  ended,  Eunice  inquired: 

"You  certainly  didn't  even  sip  each  of  those  six 
wines,  Annette?" 

"Oh,"  said  Dora,  "Annette's  used  to  tippling  by 
this  time.  They  always  have  wine — claret,  didn't 
you  say? — at  the  Ammidown  dinners." 

"Yes,"  replied  Annette.  "Mr.  Ammidown's  fond 
of  it.  And  I  must  confess  that  I've  sort  of  got  used 
to  a  glass  or  two  at  dinner.  Everybody  at  home 
drinks  it  quite  freely— that  is,  everybody  except  Gor- 
don." 

Eunice  pressed  her  lips  together  and  closed  her  eyes. 
"It  seems  to  me  just  as  dissipated!"  she  declared. 
"  Still,  I  know  it's  a  French  custom.  I've  heard  that 
in  Paris  they  drink  it  instead  of  water.  «rOnly  think! 
Well,  though,  just  look  at  what  a  people  the  French 
are,  with  those  awful  revolutions  going  on  nearly 
all  the  while." 

"It  seems  almost  funny  that  Gordon  shouldn't  ever 
take  a  drop  of  anything"  but  water,"  said  Dora  to 
Annette. 

"  He  doesn't  carefor  wine  a  bit,  "Annette  answered. 
Then,  lowering  her  voice,  while  a  little  star  seemed 
to  swim  into  both  her  dark  eyes:  "  I  knqw,  too,  why 
he  doesn't  care  for  it.  He  said  to  me  not  long  ago, 
girls:  'Annette,'  he  said,  'I'm  not  very  old,  as  you're 
aware,  but  I've  seen  just  how  much  trouble  drink  is 
bringing  into  the  world  every  day.' " 

"And he  avoids  it  on  that  account?"  said  Eunice, 
with  admiration  ringing  clearly  in  her  tones. 

"He  didn't  saj^so,"  replied  Annette,  with  a  touch 
of  pride  in  the  pose  of  her  chin,  "but  I  drew. my  con- 
clusions." 


WOMEN  MUST  WEEP  195 

"How  nice  of  him,"  said  Dora.  "There  aren't 
many  stylish  New  York  young  men  who'd  behave 
like  that." 

Annette  tried  to  look  demurely  unconscious  of  this 
pungent  compliment,  and  then  she  burst  into  a  great 
nervous  laugh.  "  Oh,  it  does  seem  so  funny,"  she  ex- 
claimed, "that  I  should  be  the  \vife  of  a  stylish  young 
New  York  man,  as  Dora  calls  him ! " 

"It's  true,"  approved  Eunice,  with  her  elder-sister 
air  handsomely  in  the  ascendant.  "  From  a  worldly 
point  of  view,  Annette,  you've  made  tie  match  of  the 
family." 

"I  hope  it's  a  good  match  from  another  point  of 
view  than  that,"  murmured  Annette. 

"I  didn't  say  it  wasn't— I  surely  didn't  think  it 
wasn't,"  Eunice  answered,  with  a  sort  of  sweet 
austerity. 

"No,  indeed,  you  didn't,"  said  Dora,  looking  at 
Eunice  with  a  quick,  wistful  eagerness  that  died  from 
her  blue  e3^es  an  instant  afterward.  An  odd  fall  in 
her  voice  made  Annette  briefly  stare  at  her.  Then 
there  was  a  little  silence  among  the  three ;  and  at 
length  Annette  said : 

"After  all,  we're  each  of  us  very  happily  married. 
We  must  acknowledge  that." 

Eunice's  face  darkened.  "I'm  the  least  happily 
married,"  she  said;  and  then,  knowing  that  they 
both  knew  something  if  not  all  of  her  trouble,  she 
lowered  her  gaze  after  a  rapid  glance  at  each  of  them. 

"No,  no,"  Dora  shot  in,  as  if  moved  by  a  sudden 
longing  to  unveil  her  own  secret  sorrow.  "  No ;  no. 
I —  '  And  there  she  stopped  dead  short. 

Eunice  broke  into  a  laugh.  "Ah,  Dora,"  she  ex- 
claimed, "you've  never  known  a  pang  since  you  took 
Harvey's  name." 


196  WOMEN  MUST  WEEP 

"  Right,  Eunice,"  chimed  in  Annette.  "  I  only  hope 
that  when  I've  been  married  as  long  as  Dora's  been  I 
can  feel  my  husband  as  thoroughly  my  lover  as  we're 
both  sure  Harvey  is  hers ! " 

Annette's  hope  was  not  destined  to  be  destroyed  in 
the  sense  that  she  uttered  it.  But  a  few  more  days 
brought  her  a  stern  shock,  nevertheless,  with  regard 
to  Gordon. 

The  family  dined  at  home,  that  day,  as  they  often 
did,  not  being  half  so  fashionable  with  respect  to 
dining  out  as  their  poor  caste-ridden  Florence  would 
have  liked  to  have  them.  But  when  Annette  pre- 
sented herself  in  the  dining-room  she  did  so  \vith  a 
wondering  and  even  worried  look. 

"Gordon's  not  home  yet,"  she  said,  as  she  seated 
herself  at  the  table.  "It  seems  so  queer.  He's 
always  got  back  from  the  office,  before  this,  by  a 
good  hour  earlier.  I've  never  known  him  to  be  so 
late  since  .  .  "  (here  poor  Annette  hesitated  and 
looked  timidly  at  Florence)  "since  we  were  married." 

Florence,  who  sat  next  to  the  young  wife,  frowned 
a  little  as  their  eyes  met.  "You  mustn't  show  so 
much  concern  in  your  husband's  goings  and  comings," 
that  wise  damsel  announced,  almost  too  faintly  for 
either  of  her  parents  to  hear.  "It  isn't  good  form. 
It  isn't  done,  you  know,  among  nice  people."  And 
then  an  odd,  self-accusing  look  crossed  Florence's 
face,  for  some  reason,  as  though  she  had  spoken 
stupidly  at  random. 

"  Oh,  isn't  it?"  faltered  Annette.  "  But  I  can't  help 
missing  him,  you  know,  Florence." 

The  two  young  women  had  got  to  be  very  good 
friends  by  this  time.  Florence,  with  all  her  droll 
snobbery,  had  a  sweet  and  kindly  heart.  She  may 


WOMEN  MUST  WEEP  197 

have  meant  to  do  dreadful,  annihilating  things  with 
her  snobbery  on  the  advent  of  her  pretty,  dark-eyed 
sister-in-law— or  told  herself  that  she  meant  so  to  do. 
But  Annette  had  spiked  her  guns  by  promptly  rever- 
ing her,  not  only  as  the  sole  sister  of  Gordon  but  as  a 
young  lady  of  the  very  first  fashion.  When  Florence 
said  "If  I  were  you,  Annette,  I  wouldn't  use  'guess' 
as  a  form  of  speech,  I'd  use  'fancy'  or  'think,'" 
Annette  had  never  dreamed  of  haughty  revolt,  but 
had  meekly  responded : 

"Thank  you,  Florence.  And  yet  will  you  please 
tell  me  why  '  guess '  isn't  a  good  English  word  ?  " 

Completely  disarmed,  Florence  had  broken  into  an 
embarrassed  giggle  and  assured  herself  that  she  had 
never  seen  a  pair  of  dark  eyes  that  could  so  change 
from  drowsy  to  vivid  as  did  those  of  her  new  simple- 
bred  little  kinswoman. 

"'Guess,'"  she  had  answered  lightly,  "isn't  an 
English  word  at  all.  It's  an  American  word." 

"Oh,  Florence!  I  can  show  it  you  in  the  diction- 
ary. And  why  do  you  call  anything  'horribly 
American  ? '  Is  it  ever  horrible  to  be  American  ?  " 

Florence  kissed  her,  and  held  her  hand  smilingly 
while  she  said:  "Yes,  it's  horrible  to  be  American 
when  you're  doing  or  saying  anything  that  they  do  or 
say  better  in  the  English  manner.  That  is,  my  dear, 
if  you  belong  to  the  best  society." 

"  Tell  me  about  the  best  society,"  returned  Annette ; 
and  then  Florence  had  a  great  deal  of  nonsense  to 
talk,  which  continued  in  its  intermittent  outflow  for 
a  number  of  weeks.  Nothing  to  the  young  daughter 
of  the  Ammidowns  could  have  been  more  delightful 
than  the  respectful  attention  and  recipiency  of  An- 
nette. That  somewhat  cynical  poet  who  sang  of 


198  WOMEN  MUST  WEEP 

women  as  all  being  rakes  at  heart  might  with  far 
truer  wisdom  have  proclaimed  them  snobs  in  the 
same  furtive  way.  Annette  became  deeply  interested 
in  the  creeds  and  edicts  of  the  select  world  as  Flor- 
ence, with  her  droll  newspaper-born  erudition  con- 
cerning them,  pictured  their  charms.  Incessantly 
Annette  was  being  chidden  or  snubbed  for  mistake  or 
solecism.  She  bore  her  yoke  with  delightful  patience, 
and  indeed  had  only  love  to  give  in  return  for  its  in- 
fliction. She  had  had  ample  chance,  no  doubt,  to 
discover  by  this  time  that  the  sister  of  her  husband 
was  not  at  all  the  brilliant  lady  of  fashion  her  own 
airs  and  graces  had  implied.  But  she  had  discovered 
nothing  of  the  sort.  Florence  still  shone  for  her  eyes 
with  a  corona  of  the  most  patrician  distinction. 
Her  word  was  not  only  law ;  it  was  law  that  begot 
obedience  as  naturally  as  bark  begets  leaf. 

To-day,  after  having  seated  herself  at  dinner,  An- 
nette had  no  idea  of  the  secret  anxiety  that  reigned 
in  this  little  family  circle.  But  soon  she  detected 
worriment  on  the  faces  of  both  Gordon's  parents. 
What  could  it  mean  ?  Was  he  its  cause  ?  Were  they 
keeping  anything  back  from  her  ? 

As  the  dinner  progressed,  she  turned  to  Mr.  Ammi- 
down,  and  in  speaking  to  him  she  forgot  the  drop- 
ping of  that  old-fashioned  "  sir  "  which  Florence  had 
long  ago  vetoed  her  using.  "Can  you  tell  me,  sir," 
she  asked,  "whether  Gordon  was  at  the  office  when 
you  left?" 

"I'm  unable  to  say,"  replied  her  father-in-law, 
with  a  look  that  shifted  unwontedly.  He  at  once 
spoke  of  something  else,  addressing  his  wife  across 
the  table;  and  in  her  answers  Annette  perceived  an 
absentness  yet  somehow  a  repressed  excitement. 


WOMEN  MUST  WEEP  199 

She  denounced  her  own  dread  as  foolish,  and  yet  it 
grew  rather  than  waned.  As  soon  as  dinner  was 
over,  and  just  as  the  head  of  the  house  had  de- 
parted for  a  solitary  cigar  upstairs  in  his  library,  she 
went  to  Mrs.  Ammidown's  side  and  laid  a  hand  on 
that  lady's  arm. 

"  It  does  seem  so  strange,"  she  said, "  to  go  through 
the  whole  of  dinner  without  Gordon  .  .  doesn't  it?" 

To  her  dismay,  Mrs.  Ammidown,  after  a  mo- 
mentary wistful  stare,  burst  into  tears. 

"Mamma!  mamma!"  fell  from  Florence,  who 
hurried  toward  her  mother  at  once.  "Remember, the 
new  waitress  may  be  back  any  instant.  Do,  please 
control  yourself." 

But  her  monition  might  have  done  much  better  for 
Annette.  "  Oh,  what  is  it?"  she  cried,  and  terrifiedly 
caught  Mrs.  Ammidown  by  either  shoulder.  "  Some- 
thing's happened  to  him,  I  know!  It's  happened, 
and  you've  been  afraid  to  tell  me!" 

Between  them,  Florence  and  her  mother  led  An- 
nette into  one  of  the  dim  drawing  rooms  beyond. 
Florence  at  this  moment  forgot  every  vestige  of  the 
nonsense  that  ruled  her  life,  yet  ruled  it,  when  all 
was  told,  so  superficially.  She  forced  Annette  into  a 
sofa,  with  gentle  yet  firm  suasion.  Mrs.  Ammidown 
seated  herself  on  Annette's  other  side.  Then  there 
was  silence,  during  which  Gordon's  wife  looked  al 
most  wildly  from  one  to  the  other  face. 

"What  is  it?  What  is  it?"  she  again  questioned. 
' '  Oh,  tell  me!  Even  if— if  he's  dead,  do  tell  me! ' ' 

"Dead!"  replied  Florence.  "As  though  we'd  have 
sat  there  like  that  if  he  had  been!" 

"It's  nothing,  nothing  at  all,"  broke  from  Mrs. 
Ammidown,  while  she  wiped  her  eyes  in  a  manner 


200  WOMEN  MUST  WEEP 

full  of  plaintiveness  yet  of  resolve  as  well.  "My  dear 
Annette,  I  don't  know  why  that— that  nervous  fit 
overcame  me;  I  don't  indeed." 

"You  were  nervous  about  him,  though!"  said  An- 
nette. "It  was  that;  it  is  that!  Don't  deceive  me!" 
Then  she  turned  toward  Florence.  "Fo«'//tell  me!" 

"  Yes,  I  will,"  was  the  answer. 

"Florence!"  appealed  her  mother.  "  Remember  that 
we  don't  really  know  yet — we're  not  sure  yet!" 

"  Oh,  mamma, "sprang  from  Florence  with, mourn- 
ful impatience.  "We're  almost  as  sure  as  we've  ever 
been!  Didn't  papa  say  that  he  came  there  into  the 
private  office  at  three  o'clock  this  afternoon  and  that 
he  was  then " 

Mrs.  Ammidown  rose,  and  put  forth  two  trembling, 
vetoing  hands.  "No,  no,"  she  cried,  your  father 
might  have  been  mistaken!"  Then,  tumultuously  to 
Annette:  '""Come  upstairs  with  me,  my  dear.  I've 
something  to  show  you  that  I  bought  this  afternoon. 
Come." 

Annette  rose,  taking  the  speaker's  hand  feverishly 
in  both  her  own.  With  a  rebellious  toss  of  the  head, 
Florence  now  rose  also.  "Mamma,"  she  cried, 
"from  what  I  heard  papa  say  just  before  dinner,  / 
haven't  a  vestige  of  doubt.  And  it's  better  that 
Annette  should  know  everything  at  once.  We  should 
never  have -kept  it  from  her  as  we  did.  I  knew  it  was 
certain  to  come.  And  it  has  come  ..."  At  this  point 
the  girl  suddenly  staggered  backward,  and  pointed 
to  the  near  doorway.  "Heavens!"  her  next  words 
rang  bleakly,  "it's  here  now!  " 

Annette  looked.  She  saw  her  husband  enter  the 
room.  She  shot  toward  him,  then  paused.  In  an 
instant  she  had  grasped  the  full,  odious  truth. 


XV 

Gordon  dropped  into  a  chair  while  his  wife  stood 
gazing  at  him.  His  face  was  excessively  flushed.  He 
had  on  his  overcoat,  and  held  his  hat  in  one  hand.  In 
the  other  hand  he  held  a  half-burned  cigar. 

His  mother  went  toward  him,  passing  Annette, 
who  stood  as  if  turned  to  stone. 

"Gordon,"  she  said  very  gently,  "will  you  come 
with  me  to  your  room?" 

She  spoke'  as  if  confident  of  his  kindly  answer.  In 
all  such  trying  times  as  these  she  had  never  received 
a  real  rebuff  from  him.  But  there  came  one  now.  He 
waved  his  mother  aside,  and  in  another  moment 
stood  unsteadily  erect.  His  clouded  mind  was  pierced 
with  shame  and  self-disgust  at  the  sight  of  Annette. 
He  had  an  impulse  to  fling  himself  on  the  carpet  at 
her  feet  and  grovel  for  her  pardon.  Then  that  passed 
and  an  insane  anger  at  his  mother  took  its  place. 
His  voice,  as  he  began  to  speak,  was  fatally  thick; 
his  words  were  fatally  incoherent.  Soon  both  cleared. 

"  She  made  me  marry  you,"  he  said  to  Annette,  not 
loudly,  but  with  a  terrible  huskiness.  "  She  made  me 
marry  you  because  she  thought  it  would  save  me, 
cure  me.  That's  the  truth— Florence  knows  it's  the 


202  WOMEN  MUST  WEEP 


truth.  And  the  whole  thing  was  an  outrage.  I 
mean  to  you,  dear  girl — to  you  ...  I  shouldn't  have 
come  home  at  all.  I  should  have  staid  away  until 
—But  my  mind's  more  like  my  own  mind  now,  and  I 
see  I  did  come — or  somebody  brought  me — God  knows 
which  ...  I  won't  stay,  Annette;  I'll  go  out  again 
for  a  little  while  and  come  back  as  soon  as  I'm  better. 
Don't  be  afraid;  I  won't  stay  long;  I — I  must  get 

to  the  air,  and  I  promise,  I  swear ' 

He  did  not  say  what  he  would  promise  or  swear, 
but  dashed  from  the  room,  and  soon  from  the  house 
as  well.  Once  out  in  the  street,  with  a  sharp,  damp- 
ish wind  blowing  on  his  face,  he  felt  strangely,  almost 
agonizingly  sobered.  As  he  walked  onward  he  tried 
to  recollect  what  had  happened  since  that  meeting 
with  his  father  in  the  afternoon.  But  he  tried  quite 
in  vain.  The  imp  in  him  had  got  the  upper  hand 
then,  and  a  few  stern  words,  a  few  shocked  looks 
from  his  father  had  served  merely  to  intensify  its 
goblin  sway.  His  nerves  began  to  quiver  with  anew 
craving  for  drink,  and  at  the  same  time  an  acute 
self-pity  seemed  threatening  to  drive  him  mad.  The 
past  few  years  became  panoramic  to  his  heated  brain. 
There  could  be  no  doubt,  he  told  himself,  that  nature 
had  laid  on  him  one  of  those  hereditary  curses  which 
are  like  the  worst  freaks  of  spite  from  a  malignant 
foe.  He  recalled  his  college-days,  in  which  he  had 
often  shrunk  with  a  sort  of  premonitory  terror  from 
all  wine,  as  though  instinctively  aware  that  it  held 
for  him  a  peculiar  power  of  bane.  Then  he  had 
striven  to  shake  off  such  dread  as  unmanly  and 
weak.  He  had  let  the  tempter  work  its  will,  and  with 
what  horrible  speed  that  will  had  been  worked. 
Other  young  men  were  not  like  him ;  if  they  sank 


WOMEN  MUST  WEEP  203 

into  calamity  it  was  not  with  his  horridly  abrupt 
plunge.  They  had  all  had  a  fairer  chance  than  he. 
They  had  all  known  a  time  when  they  could  drink 
without  seeming  to  be  harmed  a  whit — when  excess 
did  not  dog  the  heels  of  participation.  He  had  never 
known  any  such  time.  With  him  some  cerebral 
lesion  had  fraught  with  disaster  the  first  glass  that 
met  his  lips,  yet  conferred  on  it  a  fearful  fascination 
besides.  No  wonder  that  Harvey  Kinnicutt  had 
never  guessed  the  truth  in  collegiate  hours.  There 
had  never  been  any  visible  truth  to  guess,  at  that 
period.  All  that  while  he  had  held  himself  in,  aware 
of  his  own  peril".  Afterward  he  had  let  himself  loose, 
and  the  peril  had  grown  a  monster  affliction.  Oh,  it 
was  hard ! 

And  then  this  marriage  with  Annette.  Had  he 
been  wrong  to  upbraid  his  mother  for  havingbrought 
it  about?  Was  not  he  himself  prepared  to  control 
the  longing  he  felt  for  the  girl?  But  had  not  his 
mother  behaved  with  savage  cruelty  ?  Had  she  not 
been  merciless  as  some  animal  that  slays  .another  to 
feed  its  own  young?  Was  not  this  whole  alliance  a 
trick,  a  trap,  a  snare  ?  Did  not  poor  Annette  owe  to 
his  house  a  bitter  grudge  ?  And  how  should  he  go 
back  to  her  and  look  her  in  the  eyes,  knowing  that 
she  knew  at  last  of  what  an  infamous  traffic  she  had 
been  made  the  victim  ? 

"She  may  despise  me  so,  after  this,"  he  said  to 
himself.  "  that  to  live  with  me  will  be  a  horror. "  He1' 
stood  still,  as  this  thought  crossed  him,  and  a  lamp- 
post being  near,  he  reached  out  a  hand  and  clung  to 
it.  He  reeled  for  a  second,  as  he  did  so,  and  anyone 
passing  him  might  have  deemed  him  simply  the  most 
ordinary  of  drunkards,  clutching  the  traditional 


204  WOMEN  MUST  WEEP 

lamp-post.  But  in  truth  he  had  not  been  so  com- 
pletely sobered  for  several  lurid  hours  as  just  at  this 
moment.  "  That  to  live  with  me  will  be  a  horror," 
he  repeated,  aloud  now  and  not  mentally.  "She 
married  me  believing  me  so  different  from  what  I  am. 
Ah,  poor  Annette !  It  was  an  outrage ! " 

The  gusty  night  had  hidden  a  moon  among  its 
driving,  hustling  clouds.  Now  there  came  an  inter- 
space of  clear  sky  above  the  house-tops,  and  while 
beams  of  pale  splendor  poured  suddenly  down  on 
the  street  and  gutters  washed  clean  by  recent  rain, 
they  showed  Gordon's  face,  pale  yet  with  no  sign  of 
grossness  on  it,  the  eyes  full  of  sorrow,  the  symmetric 
auburn  beard  and  moustache  aiding  by  their  mellow 
gloom  of  tint  his  fine-cut  nostrils,  and  the  strong  yet 
soft  curves  of  that  interspace  between  cheeks  and 
brow  which  even  more  than  his  neat  moulded  chin 
made  him  a  man  of  noteworthy  air. 

But  to  Gordon  himself  the  burst  of  moonlight 
showed  his  present  surroundings  with  keen  display. 
Near  at  hand  was  the  saloon  of  Andrew  Heffernan. 
Its  side-door  seemed  to  beckon  him.  In  other  days 
he  had  slipped  through  that  side-door,  conscious  that 
by  so  doing  he  escaped  the  publicity  of  being  seen  by 
others  of  his  own  class. 

" My  wife's  uncle,"  he  thought.  "How  little  I  ever 
then  dreamed  I  should  connect  this  dive  with  such  an 
idea!" 

Yet  the  incongruity  did  not  prevent  him  from  soon 
slipping  inside.  He  was  sobered,  but  still  the  greed  for 
drink  had  by  no  means  left  him.  He  hated  to  let  Hef- 
fernan see  the  truth  if  he  were  there.  Perhaps  Hef- 
fernan was  not  there,  he  had  said  to  himself,  and  in 
that  case  he  would  remain  long  enough  to  lull  this 
awful  craving. 


WOMEN  MUST  WEEP  205 

But  Heffernan  was  there.  "Ah,"  said  the  uncle  of 
Annette,  in  sudden  recognition.  That  was  all.  Then 
he  put  forth  his  hand,  which  Gordon  took.  "  How 
goesit?"  the  liquor-seller  asked,  in  a  cool,  professional 
way.  And  Gordon  answered,  more  betrayingly  than 
he.  knew :  "All  right.  Won't  you  have  something  ?" 

This  passed  in  a  flash.  Heffernan  was  standing 
outside  ofhis  bar ;  he  never  went  inside  of  it  as  a  cater- 
er nowadays.  A  group  of  men  were  at  his  elbow. 
He  moved  away  from  them  \vhile  joining  Gordon,  and 
before  the  latter  knew  it  he  and  his  wife's  kinsman 
stood  considerably  in  the  rear  of  the  tavern. 

"I  hoped  you'd  never  do  this  again,  "Heffernan  said. 

4 '  I— I  didn't  expect  to,"  was  the  reply.  "Do I  look 
bad?" 

"You  look — off.  .  .    Does  she  know?'' 

"  Never  mind  that.  .  .    Well,  yes,  she  does." 

"I  knew  it  was  bound  to  come,"  said  Heffernan,  as 
if  musing,  and  with  his  grave,  bass  voice. 

They  drank  together  in  silence.  Then  Gordon  said: 
"  I  don't  think  it  will  last  long  this  time." 

"I  hope  not." 

Gordon  seized  Heffernan's  big  hand  and  wrung  it. 
"You're  a  d—  good  boy,  Heff,"  he  said. 

"  That  sounds  like  old  times,  Mr.  Ammidown." 

"Don't  call  me  that.  Look  here:  do  you  know 
we're  more  closely  connected  than  we  used  to  be  ?" 

"  I  don't  forget  it." 

Gordon's  new  drink  had  already  done  its  work.  He 
put  his  hand  on  Heffernan's  big  shoulder  and  stared 
into  his  face.  "I've  had  some  howling  old  times  in 
here,  haven't  I,  old  chap?  Eh?  Haven't  I?" 

"  You've  been  pretty  loaded  here,"  said  Heffernan 
sombrely.  "I  hoped  you'd  been  so  for  the  last  time 
in  your  life." 


206  WOMEN  MUST    WEEP 


"  So  did  I — so  did  I.    Let's  have  another  drink." 

"No  more.  You'll  go  home,  now.  You  ought  to, 
and  you  will."  Heffernan  spoke  with  a  gentle  stern- 
ness, but  as  he  did  so  Gordon  straightened  himself, 
and  quite  coolly  and  self-containedly  ordered  more 
liquor. 

"Look  here,"  he  said,  "I'm  all  right.  There's  no 
danger.  A  change  was  bound  to  come.  But  it 
isn't  going  to  be  anything  bad.  Now  don't  you 
worry.  You  behaved  splendidly  about  .  .  about  the 
marriage.  You  never  told  a  soul.  Annette  thinks 
the  world  of  your  wife ;  you  know  that,  old  boy. 
She's  never  received  anything  but  politeness  when 
she's  come  to  our  house.  Isn't  that  so  ?" 

"  Well,"  said  Heffernan,  drawing  up  his  big  frame, 
"it  is  and  it  isn't.  Your  mother's  been  nice  enough 
to  her,  but  your  sister " 

"Oh,  bosh!  Never  mind  Florence.  She's  a  foolish 
minx.  She's  got  silly  ideas.  Don't  let's  think  of  her. 
Look  here :  I  didn't  come  in  this  place  to  talk  about 
women,  anyway.  I  wanted  to  ask  you  about  Went- 

worth's  chances  in  the  next "  And  then,  with  a 

fresh  glass  raised  to  his  lips,  Gordon  paused,  seeing 
for  the  first  time  the  great  thinning  and  hollowing 
change  that  had  swept,  of  late,  over  Heffernan 's 
visage. 

"Why,  what's  come  to  you,  man?"  he  broke  off,  re- 
ceding a  step  or  two.  "  Fou're  not  well." 

"No,"  said  Heffernan,  drooping  his  eyes,  "I'm  not 
well.  That  is,  not  very." 

Gordon  searchingly  surveyed  him.  "I  hope  your 
mind  isn't  bothered." 

"Yes,  my  mind  is  bothered." 

"How?  Tell  me,  old  chap.    Tell  me." 


WOMEN  MUST  WEEP  207 

"  Mr.  Ammidown,  I " 

"Oh,  damn  it,  don't  call  me  Mr.  Ammidown  ..." 
Here  Gordon  gave  a  real,  shrill,  inebriate  laugh. 
"Well,  keep  your  secrets;  Inever  pry  into  any  man's." 
He  caught  the  lapel  of  Heffernan's  coat  and  held  it  as 
he  went  on:  "You're  a  devilish  good  chap,  every  time, 
and  I  want  you  to  tell  me  that  my  friend,  Wen  tworth, 
is  bound  to  carry  this  district  next  November— sure, 
sure,  and  no  mistake." 

"It's  too  early  to  talk  November  politics,"  Heffer- 
nan  said.  He  tried  to  smile,  but  the  result  was  only 
a  drawn  and  painful  sort  of  leer.  "Now, promise  me," 
he  went  on,  "that  you  won't  take  another  drop — 
that  you'll  let  me  go  right  straight  home  with  you  to 
your  very  door.  .  ." 

He  spoke  further  words  like  these,  and  soon,  to  his 
own  surprise,  prevailed  upon  Gordon  to  leave  the 
saloon  with  him  and  go  quietly  back  to  the  Ammi- 
down residence.  Gordon  had  a  key,  and  fumblingly 
used  it  after  he  had  said  good  night  several  times,  at 
last  entering  the  house  and  closing  the  door  behind 
him.  Heffernan  walked  back  toward  the  saloon  he 
had  quitted,  saying  once  or  twice  in  a  faint  whisper : 
"Poor  little  Annette!  .  .  poor  little  Annette!  It's  all 
as  much  my  fault  as  anybody's !  " 

He  re-entered  his  establishment  with  a  sense  that  the 
moon,  still  transiently  denuded  of  her  hurrying  clouds, 
glared  upon  him  accusation  and  reproach.  For  that 
matter,  hundreds  of  material  details  in  his  daily  occu- 
pation and  environment  seemed  thus  to  glare  upon 
him.  He  had  reached  that  stage  in  the  life  of  the 
conscience-stricken  when  mere  self-reproach  and  fierce 
remorse  have  grown  to  be  cousins,  like  neuralgia  and 
rheumatism.  He  was  wretchedly  unhappy,  and  ac- 


208  WOMEN  MUST  WEEP 

cording  to  the  most  tragic  form  of  unhappiness  which 
ever  assails  the  human  soul.  His  wife,  in  whose  char- 
ities and  whose  sense  of  right  he  devoutly  believed, 
had  helped  to  convince  him  that  his  course  of  daily 
life  reeked  with  evil.  Being  just  in  the  mental  state 
to  tremble  guiltily  under  her  counsels,  he  now  found 
himself  confronted  by  new  demands  upon  his  forces 
of  moral  concession.  As  he  re-entered  the  saloon  to- 
night a  man  approached  him  who,  of  all  others,  rep- 
resented most  harshly  his  bond  with  wrong  and 
shame.  This  man  was  Larry  McGonigle,  and  he 
stood  waiting  at  the  bar  as  Heffernan  appeared. 

"Hello,"  he  said,  and  put  out  his  hand  which  Hef- 
fernan took. 

"You're  alone  to-night,"  said  the  liquor-seller,  with 
an  air  of  having  nothing  else  to  say. 

'Yes.  Alone  and  cold  sober.  Will  you  have  a 
drink?" 

They  talked  together  for  perhaps  ten  minutes  in 
tones  so  low  that  others  who  were  at  the  bar  failed 
to  hear  a  word  they  said.  Then  suddenly  Larry  Mc- 
Gonigle loudened  his  voice  a  little;  perhaps  he  had 
not  been  as  "cold  sober"  as  he  asserted,  and  the 
fresh  stimulant  of  which  he  now  partook  told  ac- 
cordingly. 

"What  do  I  want?"  he  asked,  and  brought  his  fist 
heavily  down  on  the  bar-counter.  "A  clean  under- 
standing 'twixt  you  and  me.  Now,  that's  plain  talk- 
You're  goin'  to  boss  this  Wentworth  job.  How'll 
you  boss  it?  Man  to  man;  let  me  know  how." 

Heffernan  rolled  his  dark  eyeballs  (and  they  had 
grown  glassy,  of  late,  like  a  sick  man's)  toward  the 
two  groups  of  wassailers  not  far  away.  These  had 
not  heard;  they  were  too  immersed  in  their  own  va- 
cuous parlance. 


WOMEN  MUST   WEEP  209 

"Man  to  man,"  said  Heffernan,  with  curt  gruff- 
ness,  "I've  got  no  news  on  the  subject.  You  talk 
about  boodle  planked  down,  Larry.  I  havn't  seen 
any  yet.  If  I  do " 

"Well,  if  you  do,"  McGonigle  struck  in  with  sharp 
heat.  "What  then?" 

Heffernan  shrugged  his"  huge  shoulders.  "Oh, 
pshaw!  you  talk  like  a  kid  of  sixteen.  The  money 
Wentworth  spends  on  his  election  ought  to  go  to 
getting  him  in." 

A  silence  intervened,  and  then  Larry  McGonigle 
drew  himself  up,  with  a  look  on  his  large,  pale,  fat 
face  that  those  whom  he  did  not  like  had  frequently 
been  sorry  to  see  there. 

"  It  musn't  go  to  gettin'  him  in,  Andy.  It  must  go 
to  gettin'  me  in.  You  pledged  yourself  to  me  on'y  a 
few  weeks  off,  here  at  this  very  bar  that  you'd  knife 
him  when  the  time  come.  You  give  me  your  hand  on 
it.  Do  ye  go  back  on  your  word?  Is  that  the  size 
of  it?" 

Heffernan  remembered  his  pledge  perfectly.  He 
nodded  coldly,  though  scorched  by  inward  torments. 

"No,  it  ain't  the  size  of  it,"  he  returned,  sullenly. 
"The  whole  thing  is  early  yet  to  waste  chin-music 
on."  His  manner  grew  scowling,  even  offensive,' 
though  it  concealed  mental  agony.  "I  ain't  gone 
back  on  my  \vord  yet,  Larry." 

For  a  few  seconds  McGonigle  surveyed  him,  with 
suspicion  and  a  smoldering  challenge  as  well. 

"All  right,"  he  said  .  .  .  "Everything  paid  for? ' '  he 
soon  asked  of  the  bar-keeper,  who  nodded  yes.  Then 
he  began  to  button  his  overcoat. 

While  doing  so  he  fixed  his  dull,  small  eyes  on  Hef- 
fernan. He  did  not  speak  at  all  loudly  or  excitedly 


210  WOMEN  MUST  WEEP 

now,  but  there  was,  nevertheless,  a  great  deal  of 
hard,  harsh,  bull-dog  earnestness  in  his  next  \vords. 

"You  owe  me  things,  Andy.  We  ain'-t  square  yet, 
as  creditor  to  debtor,  if  I  choose  to  put  it  that  way. 
But  I  don't  say  I  do  choose  to  put  it  that  way.  You 
tell  me  you  ain't  gone  back  on  your  word  yet.  All 
right.  There's  been  whispers  flyin'  'round,  and  I 
guess  you  may  have  heard  some  of  'em  if  you  ain't 
heard  all.  They  may  be  lies.  I  hope  so.  But  if  they 
turn  out  not  to  be  lies,  an'  if  you've  made  up  your 
mind  to  treat  me  as  if  I  was  somebody  who'd  never 
done  you  a  favor  in  his  life, why  then  look  out.  I'm  a 
good  friend,  but  I'm  a  bad  foe.  Don't  you  forget  it 
and  look  out." 

There  was  excessive  threat  in  the  undertone  which 
clad  these  last  two  sentences.  Heffernan  gave  no 
sign  that  he  had  heard  a  syllable  of  either.  He  had 
lowered  his  massive  head  a  little,  and  with  an  elbow 
on  the  polished  wooden  railing  of  the  bar,  he  stood 
like  a  man  spell-bound  by  some  intense  revery. 

Larry  McGonigle  silently  stared  at  him  for  several 
seconds.  Then  he  turned  and  left  the  saloon. 

When  he  had  gone  Heffernan  drew  a  deep  breath. 

"That  man,"  he  said,  aloud  to  himself,  "would 
«hoot  me  down  like  a  dog  if  he  took  the  notion  and 
was  drunk  enough  to  think  I  deserved  it." 

"What,  sir?"  inquired  the  bar-keeper,  supposing  he 
had  been  addressed. 

"Nothing,  Tim,"  replied  his  master,  with  a  smile 
that  had  no  mirth  in  it.  "I  wasn't  talking  to  you. 
I  hope  I  was  talking  to  a  worse  man— myself." 

He  spoke  those  last  words  so  faintly  that  Tim  did 
not  catch  them.  A  little  while  afterward  he  left  the 
saloon.  It  was  earlier  than  usual  when  he  got  home 


WOMEN  MUST  WEEP  211 

that  special  night.  His  \vife  had  not  yet  gone  to  bed, 
though  the  hour  was  nearly  two  o'clock. 

"This  won't  do,  Liza,"  he  said,  as  he  entered  the 
sitting-room  and  found  her  sewing  beside  a  lamp. 

"I  just  wanted  to  finish  this,  Andy,"  she  \vent 
through  the  pretense  of  explaining. 

"Oh,  you  sat  up  for  me,  /know!" 

She  gave  a  long,  soft  sigh.  "  You  said  you  mightn't 
be  very  late  to-night." 

"Yes.    Well,  here  I  am." 

She  slipped  to  his  side  as  he  threw  himself  into  a 
chair.  "Oh,  Andy!"  she  burst  forth  plaintively, 
"you've  got  that  look  again!" 

He  made  no  answer,  and  she  put  an  arm  about  his 
neck.  "Your  head  doesn't  ache  you  now,  does  it?" 
she  said. 

"No.    It  don't  often  ache  much,  anyhow." 

'•  But  there's  that  queerness?" 

"Yes." 

"You'll  go  and  see  the  doctor  again  to-morrow. 
It's  time,  you  know." 

Heffernan  sternly  shook  his  head.  "There's  no 
physic  for  a  case  like  mine,"  he  muttered. 

"Ah,"  she  cried,  as  a  smile  shot  over  her  face. 
"Then  you're  coming  to  feel  what  the  only  real 
physic  is  Andy?" 

"I  sometimes  think  it's  a  black  draught,  Liza- 
black  as  death." 

"  Hush,  Andy — hush!    How  can  you?" 

"Oh,  I  can,  easy  enough.  Anybody  can.  It  don't 
take  long,  and  it  don't  cost  much.  It " 

She  flung  both  arms  about  him,  and  gave  a  little 
pained  scream  at  the  same  instant.  "  No,  no,  no.  To 
do  a  thing  like  that!  But  you  don't  mean  it!  .  , 


212  WOMEN  MUST  WEEP 

There's  something  else,  though,  that  I  do  wish  you 
wou/Jmean!  And  it  "wouldn't  be  hard.  All  you've 
got  to  do,  Andy,  is  just  to  break  loose  with  a  big 
wrench.  .  Andy!" 

"  Well?"  he  said,  as  she  started  away  from  him  and 
stood  erect  at  his  side. 

"I  know  just  how  you're  in  doubt,  just  how  you 
suffer!" 

"Well?"  herepeated;  and  his  gaze  scanned  her  form, 
which  was  to  him  not  over-fleshful,  her  face  which 
was  to  him  full  of  a  fine  feminine  sweetness  and  hu- 
man kindness — as  indeed  it  was  to  any  other  eye 
that  observed  it  with  the  least  careful  heed. 

"This,  Andy,  this:  We  haven't  the  same  kind  of 
faith,  and  yet  we  both  believe  almost  the  same  thing. 
We  both  trust  with  all  our  souls  that  there's  a  God 
who'll  hear  if  we  cry  to  him  in  sorrow."  She  sank 
on  her  knees  at  her  husband's  feet,  and  caught  one  of 
his  hands  as  she  did  so.  "Kneel  and.  pray  with  me, 
Andy.  Kneel  .  .  won't  you?" 

After  a  pause,  during  which  she  looked  up  into  his 
seamed  and  rugged  face  with  profound  yearning,  Hef- 
fernan  rose,  and  then  dropped  on  his  knees  at  her 
side. 

She  took  both  his  big  hands  in  her  own,  now,  and 
held  them  together  while  she  softly  rained  kisses  on 
them.  Her  eyes  began  to  pour  tears,  but  the  voice 
that  left  her  lips  a  moment  later  was  undisturbed  by 
tremors. 

"Oh,  merciful  God,"  that  voice  gently  but  keenly 
rang,  "give  to  this  man  who  now  kneels  at  my  side 
a  sense  of  your  great  love  and  great  pfty !  Make  him 
sure  of  both;  let  both  enter  his  heart  and  search  it, 
till  he  feels  that  you  are  not  only  mighty  but  friendly 


WOMEN  MUST  WEEP  213 


as  well.  Teach  him  that  to  lose  the  respect  of  the  dis- 
honest is  to  reap  a  rich  reward.  Give  him  courage  to 
dare  the  foolish  sneers  of  those  \vhose  praise  his 
heart  despises.  Make  him  tear  himself  bravely  from 
the  toils  of  sin,  as  we  root  a  plant  from  earth  that 
harms  it  and  place  it  in  earth  full  of  nourishing  health. 
Guide  this  man  straight  to  a  right  way  of  living,  O, 
God,  and  above  all,  show  him  that  when  he  gives  up 
what  his  own  spirit  already  hates  as  mean  and  low, 
he  brings  upon  himself  no  real  burden  but  only  a  new 
happiness,  which  every  new  year  will  increase.  ..." 

Perhaps  the  prayer  might  have  lasted  longer  if  Hef- 
fernan  had  let  it.  But  he  now  rose  and  silently  passed 
from  the  room.  His  \vife  knew  that  he  was  deeply 
moved.  There  was  joy  to  her  in  that  thought,  and 
while  she  remained  on  her  knees  after  he  had  gone  her 
prayer  continued,  modulated  into  the  lowest  whis- 
pers and  assuming  a  kind  of  passionate  colloquialism, 
a  reverent  familiarity,  to  which  she  would  not  have 
dared  let  him  continue  an  auditor. 

"Oh,  God,"  she  appealed,  "may  he  soon  quit  that 
cursed  trade  and  the  vile  politics  th  at  go  along  with  it ! 
If  he  can't  behave  right  to  Mr.  Wentworth,  don't  let 
him  make  believe  he  can  and  plaster  himself  all  over 
with  lies  to  please  the  greedy  gangs  that  think  they 've 
got  a  grip  on  his  very  soul.  Snatch  his  soul  away 
from  'em,  O  God,  and  take  it  to  yourself.  Make  us 
poor  again,  if  you  please.  Only  spare  me  my  health, 
and  I'll  be  glad  to  work  for  us  both,  as  I  work  now 
for  them  that  poverty  and  sickness  keep  crushed  down, 
without  a  chance  or  even  a  hope !" 

But  hope  came  to  this  woman  as  she  finished  her 
prayer.  He  had  knelt  with  her;  he  had  listened. 
That  meant  so  much ! 


XVI 

Mrs.  Ammidown,  during  the  next  few  days,  felt  like 
groveling  for  pardon  at  the  feet  of  Annette.  But  her 
daughter-in-law  did  not  merely  fail  of  demanding  any 
such  repentant  course ;  she  was  ready  to  mingle  her 
own  sorrow  with  that  of  the  self-accusing  mother. 

No  argument  could  have  convinced  Annette  that  the 
least  trap  had  been  set  for  her.  She  was  horrified,  but 
her  dismay  was  far  from  taking  the  form  of  blame. 
Why  should  they  have  told  her  if  they  trusted  that 
Gordon  would  rise  superior  to  his  past?  If  indeed  they 
had  told  her  she  would  have  married  him  just  the 
same.  She  would  have  trusted,  too,  in  the  potencies 
of  her  own  wifehood.  It  was  all  an  awful  blow,  and 
she  reeled  under  it ;  yet  the  courage  and  fortitude  with 
which  she  pulled  herself  together,  with  which  she  ac- 
cepted this  unforeseen  trouble  as  though  it  had  been 
some  ill  of  the  flesh  that  suddenly  had  befallen  her 
husband  and  must  be  ended  and  fought  with,  not 
daintily  shrunk  from  and  execrated,  wrought  a  new 
and  quick  bond  between  herself  and  the  kindred  of 
him  whose  name  she  bore. 

Gordon's  attack  ended,  as  former  ones  had  done, 
in  total  physical  collapse.    He  drank  with  frightful 


WOMEN  MUST  WEEP  215 


abandonment  for  three  or  four  days,  and  then, 
menaced  by  the  worst  of  all  deliriums,  he  sank  into 
that  nerveless  prostration  which  needed  both  physi- 
cian and  nurse.  Annette  filled  the  latter  office  at  first, 
though  Mrs.  Ammidown  and  Florence  aided  her  in  it 
with  loving  zeal.  As  Gordon  began  to  improve,  his 
mother  begged  Annette  to  keep  up  the  deception  she 
had  already  used  with  her  sisters,  and  allow  a  "severe 
cold"  to  account  for  his  illness  and  seclusion. 
Annette  promised  obedience,  although  it  was  hard  to 
hide  this  novel  and  poignant  grief  from  the  sympa- 
thetic knowledge  of  Eunice  and  Dora. 

Both  Eunice  and  Dora,  however,  soon  learned  the 
whole  truth.  Gordon  had  this  time  behaved  with 
wild  imprudence,  not  only  appearing  twice  or  thrice 
at  the  office  of  the  Moni tor  flushed,  unkempt,  impos- 
sible, but  in  the  course  of  his  final  visit  attempting  to 
seat  himself  at  his  desk  and  issue  orders,  amid  the 
smothered  giggles  of  certain  observers.  Kinnicutt 
was  one  of  these,  though  not  a  derisive  one,  and  that 
evening  the  secret  proved  heavier  than  he  could  bear. 
Besides,  it  had  now  ceased  to  have  the  faintest  sem- 
blance of  a  secret.  Dora  heard  with  a  little  amazed 
shriek,  and  flew  across  the  hall  to  Eunice.  Then,  for 
quite  a  while  they  shuddered  and  lamented  together. 

"I've  a  good  mind  to  go  up  there  now— now,  this 
very  night,"  said  Eunice,  with  her  color  high  and  her 
demeanor  full  of  the  old  indignant  accents  that  mar- 
riage had  plainly  subdued.  "  If  Annette  wants  to  come 
and  stay  here  she  can,  you  know,  as  easily  as  not." 

"  Or  she  could  stay  with  me,  for  that  matter,"  said 
Dora. 

"How  the  poor  child  must  be  suffering!" 

"It's  dreadful  to  think  of." 


216  WOMEN  MUST  WEEP 


"And  Harvey's  known  it  all  this  time!" 

"Yes." 

"He  should  never  have  allowed  the  marriage  to 
take  place,"  scolded  Eunice.  "Now  it's  clear,  Dora, 
why  these  'ristocratic  Ammidowns  were  so  willing 
our  Annette  should  come  into  their  family!  They 
knew  pretty  well,  I  guess,  that  no  girl  of  his  own  set 
who'd  found  out  what  he  wa.s,  would  shake  a  stick 
at  him." 

"  He  deserves  to  have  a  stick  more  than  shaken  at 
him,"  frowned  Dora.  "And  just  to  think  that  we 
saw  Annette  only  day  before  yesterday  and  she  never 
told  us  a  word!" 

"  Nor  gave  a  single  sign  of  that  perfect  horror  there, 
at  home!" 

"Yes,  she  did  show  it,"  declared  Dora,  tightening 
her  lips  together  and  looking  sibylline.  "I  noticed  a 
difference  in  her.  She  didn't  say  much,  and  she  kept 
her  head  down  a  good  deal,  playing  with  Baby.  And 
then  she  was  paler  than  usual.  I  told  her  I  thought 
so,  and  you  didn't  agree  \vith  me." 

"  Poor  child!  poor  child!"  faltered  Eunice. 

"You  speak  that  way  behind  her  back,  "said  Dora, 
with  a  melancholy  smile, "  and  to-morrow  you'll  haul 
her  over  the  coals  for  not  telling  us  about  her 
troubles." 

It  was  true.  Next  day,  when  Eunice  went  to  see 
Annette  at  the  Ammidowns,  she  took  her  sister  to 
task  in  the  most  indignant  terms.  Annette  was 
meakness  itself;  there  was  something  as  natural  as 
breathing  in  being  soundly  berated  by  Eunice.  Her 
eyes  filled  as  she  brokenly  conceded: 

"Oh,  Eunice,  I — I  grant  you  I  should  have  told 
everything.  It  was  shame — it  was  false  shame,  if 


WOMEN  MUST  WEEP  217 

you  will — that  locked  my  lips.  You  see,  I'd — I'd  been 
boasting  so." 

"Boasting,"  said  Eunice,  as  if  she  didn't  at  all 
understand.  And  with  almost  a  scowl  she  gave  the 
hair  on  Annette's  forehead  one  or  two  proprietary 
touches.  Then  she  pushed  her  away,  a  little,  as  they 
sat  beside  one  another  on  a  sofa  in  the  Ammidown 
drawing-room,  and  stared  at  her  \vith  a  tremendous 
critical  survey.  Just  as  she  had  concluded  that  "  the 
child"  looked  a  good  deal  worn  and  worried,  Annette 
wearily  responded: 

"Yes,  Eunice,  boasting!  I'd  talked  to  you  so  much 
about  the  fine,  handsome  way  life  was  lived  here. 
I'd— Oh,  you  understand,  don't  you?  And  it  seemed 
like  such  a  dreadful  come-down  for  me  to  tell  you 
that  poor  Gordon  was  .  .  .  what  he  is." 

As  she  drooped  her  head  Eunice  leaned  closer  to 
her.  "Annette,  you  oughtn't  to  stay  here.  You 
ought  to  come  back  home— yes,  that's  just  what  I 
mean,  for  your  real  home  is  with  Dora  and  me  the 
very  instant  your  husband  doesn't  give  you  a  happy 
one." 

"  But  it  had  been  so  happy  a  one,"  began  Annette, 
"until " 

"Until!  Yes!  That's  just  it !  Until  he'd  showed 
you  that  he'd  made  you  marry  him  under  false  pre- 
tences." 

"Oh,  Eunice!"       • 

"It's  true  .  .  .  I'm  glad  that  Mrs.  Ammidown  and 
her  daughter  are  not  at  home,  as  you  tell  me.  I  didn't 
ask  to  see  them;  I  didn't  \vant  to!  I  was  afraid, 
if  I  should  see  them,  of  what  I  might  say.  Do  you 
think  that  for  an  instant  I'd  have  let  you  marry  a 
confirmed  drunkard  like  that?  No,  indeed!"  Here 


218  WOMEN  MUST  WEEP 

Eunice  drew  herself  up,  with  an  immense  fiery  pride. 
"  We  may  not  be  as  high  up  as  they  are  in  the  scale 
of  society  and  all  that — we  may  not  be  able  to  give 
dinners  with  flowers  and  cut-glass  finger-bowls  and 
goodness  knows  how  many  highfalutin  fixings  in  the 
line  o'  French  candies  and " 

"  Eunice,  dear!    Please  don't!" 

—"But  we  had  a  father  and  mother  (you  know  it, 
Annette  Trask!)  that  \vere  folks  who  loved  what  was 
right  and  decent,  and  lived  as  if  they  did,  from  their 
births  to  their  deaths.  It  won't  do  at  all,  it  won't  do 
at  all ! "  fumed  Eunice.  "  We  want  you  back  to  us, 
Annette! — Dora  and  I  want  you  back!" 

"I  can't  go,"  replied  Annette,  drooping  her  eyes. 
"As— as  I  told  you,  he's  better  now.  That  is,  he's 
got  to  bed,  and  a  doctor  has  come,  and  though  he's 
very  \veak  and  sick,  he  promises — 

"  Pooh!  He  promises  till  the  next  time  .  .  .  And 
they  leave  you  alone  \vith  him!  His  mother  and  sis- 
ter go  out  and  leave  you  alone  with  him!" 

"Not  alone — no.  There's  a  hired  nurse.  Mr.  Am- 
midown  thought  it  best,  after  a  talk  with  the  doctor. 
But  he  wakes  up  every  now  and  then  and  asks  for 
me." 

"Oh,  so  you  must  go  to  him  soon!"  said  Eunice, 
austerely.  "  I  see."  And  she  haughtily  rose,  though 
Annette,  rising  too,  thought  nothing  of  her  haughti- 
ness, for  two  tell-tale  tears  in  either  of  the  w ell- 
known  hazel  eyes  were  turning  her  grand  manner  to 
mockery. 

"And  Mrs.  Ammidown  and  Florence  had  to  go 
out,"  pursued  Annette.  "  There  were  things  they 
wanted  to  buy— things  for  the  sick-room." 

"Oh,"  said  Eunice,  at  once  softening. 


WOMEN  MUST  WEEP  219 

"And  Mrs.  Ammidown  was  so  forlorn,  so  shaken, 
herself,  that  she  couldn't  go  alone,  and  got  Florence 
to  be  her  companion.  They'll  soon  return.  They're 
awfully  troubled.  And,  Eunice,  he's  fond  of  me  still ! 
He  realizes  his  great  fault.  He  believes  the  whole 
thing  is  a  disease  with  him.  Now  that  he  is  my 
husband,  Eunice,  I  surely  oughtn't  to  desert  him. 
He's  disappointed  me — yes ;  but  I  begin  to  think 
most  wives  are  disappointed  in  one  way  or  another. 
Look  at  Austin." 

"Austin?"  Eunice  murmured. 

"Why,  yes.  He's  disappointed  you,  you  know. 
He  isn't  the  man  you  expected  him  to  be.  He  treats 
you  very  badly  at  times." 

"  Oh,  well,"  Eunice  answered,  biting  her  lips. 

Annette   kissed   her.     "But   you    don't  want   to 
leave  him;  you  cling  to  him;  you  can't  help  it ... 
After  all,  if  one  of  us  is  thoroughly  happy  (and  I  do 
think  Dora  is!)  let's  try  and  get  some -comfort  out  of 
that!" . . . 

In  the  afternoon,  when  she  had  reflected  more  upon 
Annette's  case  and  decided  that  nothing  could  excuse 
the  Ammidowns  for  not  having  made  clear  the  true 
nature  of  the  alliance  which  they  had  so  graciously 
approved,  Austin  presented  himself  and  showed  her 
by  his  hard,  bright  manner  that  he  was  in  rare  good 
spirits. 

"I've  seen  your  uncle  to-day,"  he  said,  "and  paid 
him  off  the  very  last  dollar  of  my  indebtedness." 

"  That's  very  nice,"  said  Eunice. 

"  It's  all  my  Opaline  Oil,"  Austin  affirmed,  rubbing 
his  trim,  shapely  hands  together  with  a  genial 
vehemence.  "That's  caught  on  so;  I  shouldn't  be 
surprised  if  it  were  to  net  me  six  hundred  this  month. 


220  WOMEN  MUST  WEEP 


And  the  sales  grow  bigger  every  week  ...  By  the 
way,  Mr.  Heffernan  looks  poorly." 

"  Aunt  'Liza  said  the  other  day  that  he  was  ailing," 
replied  Eunice.  But  her  mind  was  on  other  things 
than  the  health  of  Mr.  Heffernan.  "I've  been  to  see 
Annette,"  she^  went  on.  "  I  talked  very  plain  to  her. 
I  told  her.I  wished  she'd  come  here  and  live  \vith  us." 

Austin  turned  and  gave  his  wife  a  keen,  brief  stare. 

"  Bosh !  Come  and  live  with  us!  Harvey  dropped 
into  the  store  this  morning  and  told  me  Gordon 
Ammidown's  folks  had  got  hold  of  him  and  were 
pulling  him  through  his  racket." 

"Yes;  it's  true." 

"Well,  then!  You  certainly  haven't  been  fool 
enough  to  advise  Annette  to  leave  him !  " 

Eunice  changed  color  and  gave  her  head  a  slight 
yet  imperious  toss.  "Austin,  Austin,"  she  said, 
"  that  isn't  the  way  to  speak !  " 

"Oh,  it  isn't?  I'll  speak  worse  before  I  speak 
better." 

"You  will?" 

"  Yes — when  you  tumble  into  such  devilish  idiocy  as 
to  advise  a  wife  to  leave  her  husband.  What's  it 
your  business,  anyhow?  " 

"She's  my  sister,"  breathed  Eunice.  "She's  my 
dear  sister! " 

"Who  said  she  wasn't?  Is  that  any  reason  you 
should  try  to  make  a  shrew  and  a  Jezebel  of  her?  " 

"  I  tried  to  do  no  such  thing." 

"  Stuff.    Don't  lie  out  of  it." 

"Lie  out  of  it!  As  if  I  could!  And  I  must  bear 
such  blackguardism ! " 

"  Look  here— I'm  no  blackguard." 

"You  are  one— you  are!"  she  flashed,  and   faced 


WOMEN  MUST   WEEP  221 

him  as  he  drew  near  to  her.  He  lifted  his  hand  as  if 
to  strike  her,  and  stood  with  it  poised  above  her 
head.  He  had  no  appearance  of  passion,  but  there 
was  a  malignity  in  his  eyes  that  somehow  both  dulled 
and  brightened  them. 

"I  wish  you  would  strike  me,  and  end  it,"  she 
broke  forth,  as  he  let  his  hand  fall  and  wheeled  away 
from  her. 

"  End  it  ?"  he  sneered.     "How?" 

"Oh,  you  know!  That  would  be  the  end— if  you 
didn't  kill  me.  I'd  never  live  with  you  another  day 
after  you'd  struck  me, — provided  I  lived  at  all." 

He  gave  a  little  rattle  of  mocking  laughter.  "So 
you're  at  your  old  tricks  again,"  he  said,  suddenly 
growing  serious.  "I  thought  I'd  put  down  the 
vixen  and  termagant  in  you, — but  it  seems  they've 
popped  up  once  more.  Now,  I  mean  that  you  shall 
beg  my  pardon  for  calling  me  a  blackguard." 

"Beg  }rour  pardon!"  she  scoffed.  "Not  if  I  -were 
cut  into  inch-pieces,  Austin  Legree,  for  not  begging 
it!" 

"We'll  see,"  he  flung  over  his  shoulder,  moving 
toward  the  doorway.  "You'll  do  it,  though.' 

"  It's  you  that  should  beg  my  pardon !  "  she  cried, 
with  the  break  of  a  great  pain  in  her  voice.  "But 
you  wouldn't  mean  it,  if  you  did,  so  I  don't  care  to 
have  you  do  it.  I  only  care  for  decency  from  you— 
for  avoidance  of  insult.  You  take  delight  in  saying 
the  most  horrible  things.  You're  no  more  like  the 
man  I  married  than  ..." 

But  she  was  talking  to  dumb  walls.  He  had 
quietly  betaken  himself  from  the  room. 

She  sank  into  an  arm-chair  and  pressed  her  burning 
face  against  its  cushioned  back.  Every  detail  of  the 


222  WOMEN  MUST  WEEP 

past  interview  returned  to  her — how  she  had  hoped 
for  his  sympathy  in  the  excess  of  her  indignation  and 
compassion  at  the  deceit  practiced  upon  Annette, 
and  how  he  had  replied  to  her  with  freezing  blasts  of 
abuse. 

"Beg  his  pardon!"  she  thought;  and'  her  heart 
swelled  with  wrath  while  the  few  slow  tears  that 
trickled  from  between  her  eyelids  were  of  scalding 
heat.  "  I've  been  a  feeble  fool  before  him  long  enough. 
For  the  sake  of  peace,  for  the  sake  of  that  love  I 
loved  him  with  once  and  a  part  of  which  (God  help 
me!)  I  love  ,him  with  still— my  spirit  has  kept  itself 
under,  has  crushed  itself  down.  But  here's  an  end  to 
such  folly  forevermore!  It  isn't  my  nature  to  kiss 
anybody's  feet,  man's  or  woman's.  I'll  act  out  my 
nature  henceforth.  I  will,  I  'will,  come  what  may !  " 

And  Eunice,  poor  rebel,  tried  hard  to  do  so.  She 
detested  "not  speaking "  to  a  fellow  mortal.  It  had 
always  been  her  impulse,  among  those  who  immedi- 
ately surrounded  her,  to  speak  overmuch.  She  was 
a  born  lecturer  and  monitress.  The  qualities  of  inso- 
lent mastership  discovered  in  her  husband  had  racked 
her  sense  of  moral  dictation  to  its  utmost  roots.  Even 
now,  when  put  on  the  defensive  and  humiliatingly 
reminded  of  past  uncharacteristic  surrenders  and 
concessions,  she  yearned  to  turn  against  him  the  full 
tide  of  her  native  talents  for  pricking  torpid  con- 
sciences and  whipping  into  shape  derelict  observances 
of  duty.  But  she  repressed  all  such  desire.  Her  de- 
termined part  was  at  present  one  of  quiet  defiance. 
She  had  already  yielded  far  too  much,  and  she  would 
not  yield  a  jot  more,  Austin,  like  the  accomplished 
bully  that  he  was,  met  her  with  her  own  weapons.  It 
was  his  instinct  to  grind  her  under  his  heel  merely 


WOMEN  MUST  WEEP  223 

because  she  had  become  his  wife  and  belonged  to  him. 
There  are  some  men  who  never  own  a  horse  that  they 
do  not  make  quiver  beneath  their  lash-strokes;  nor 
a  dog  who  licks  their  hands  except  with  mute  memories 
of  yesterday's  blows.  Legree  was  one  of  these  men, 
and  if  Eunice  had  ever  borne  him  children  he  would 
have  treated  them  with  the  same  stern  domination 
with  which  he  now  treated  her. 

For  two  days  not  a  word  was  uttered  between 
them.  Dora  heard  everything  from  her  sister's  lips 
and  began  to  detest  her  brother-in-law  with  an  ardor 
toward  which  his  previous  acts  of  tyranny  had  led 
the  way.  She  even  resolved  to  give  him  "  a  piece  of 
her  mind,"  and  indeed  carried  out  her  design.  But 
there  Legree  slipped  in  a  kind  of  satanic  diplomacy 
which  was  a  subtle  adjunct  of  his  brutal  domestic 
methods. 

Instead  of  defending  himself  he  was  amiability  in- 
carnate. He  did  not  deny  Eunice's  assertions;  he 
sought  gently  to  smile  them  away.  No  astute  men- 
dacity should  here  be  charged  to  him;  it  may  have 
been  that  the  doubt  which  he  flung  over  his  wife's 
complaints  and  fault-findings  had  a  real  existence 
for  him  while  he  suggested  it.  "You  know  that  she's 
quarrelsome  and  wants  to  lay  down  the  law,"  he 
said  to  Dora.  "  She  doesn't  realize  herself,"  he  added, 
"  that  she  called  me  a  blackguard  and  in  many  other 
ways  was  horribly  abusive.  Now,  Dora,  you've 
never  seen  me  blackguardly,  you've  never  seen  me 
abusive,  but  you  certainly  have  seen  Eunice  try  to 
take  the  upper  hand,  try  to  appoint  herself  judge  and 
jury  on  a  good  many  occasions." 

Dora  shook  her  head  in  negation  at  this,  though 
secretly  aware  that  it  was  more  or  less  true.  She 


224  WOMEN  MUST  WEEP 

almost  lost  her  temper  as  she  proceeded  to  discuss 
the  affair.  But  Legree,  who  never  lost  his  temper, 
and  who  was  always  indestructibly  amiable  among 
"outsiders,"  merely  shrugged  his  shoulders  and  affa- 
bly challenged  his  sister-in-law  to  quote  an  instance 
of  his  having  behaved  like  this  dreadful  villain  Eunice 
represented  him. 

A  little  later  there  was  a  talk  between  Eunice  and 
Dora,  in  which  the  latter  clearly  betrayed  the  influ- 
ence of  Legree's  late  sophistries.  Eunice  fired  at 
once,  and  a  contest  took  place,  ending,  as  such  duels 
always  did,  in  actual,  if  not  obvious  amity.  Mean- 
while Eunice  wanted  money  for  household  expendi- 
tures, and  on  this  and  various  other  accounts  the 
silence  between  herself  and  her  husband  became 
piercingly  inconvenient. 

But  there  was  only  a  single,  strait  way  back  into 
his  good  graces,  if  such  they  could  really  be  called. 
That  way  was  one  of  self-prostration.  Eunice  knew 
the  man  thoroughly  by  this  time,  and  in  proportion 
as  she  had  got  to  know  him  better  the  vitality  of  her 
love  had  dwindled.  She  scarcely  understood,  nowa- 
days, just  how  much  or  how  little  she  cared  for  him, 
he  had  so  disappointed,  repelled,  disgusted  her.  The 
electric  element  of  passion  was  leaving  her  atmos- 
phere; a  grayness  had  begun  to  settle  over  its  hori- 
zon, where  roseate  clouds  had  once  hung  and  delicate 
heat-lightnings  had  once  played,  with  their  golden 
glimpsings  and  tropic  throbs. 

Annette's  trouble  kept  fretting  her;  there  were  one 
or  two  bills  that  waited  to  be  paid;  her  husband's 
impassive  face  and  dead  silence  began  to  tell  upon  her 
nerves.  At  last,  on  the  evening  of  the  second  day, 
she  resolved,  almost  hysterically,  to  change  things,  if 


WOMEN  MUST  WEEP  225 

it  were  possible  to  change  them  and  yet  leave  herself 
with  a  shread  of  dignity. 

They  were  alone  together  in  the  little  dining-room. 
They  had  eaten  their  dinner  without  seeming  to  take 
the  least  heed  of  one  another's  presence,  except  that 
Legree  had  carved  a  slice  of  mutton  for  Eunice,  which 
the  servant,  Catharine,  had  handed  her.  But  Catha- 
rine had  gone  now,  and  seeing  her  husband  lift  the 
last  morsel  of  mince-pie  to  his  lips,  Eunice  resolved 
that  she  would  address  him. 

"Austin,"  she  said,  "  it  doesn't  seem  right  that  we 
should  live  this  way." 

He  smiled,  and  nodded.  "Oh,  it  doesn't?  You're 
coming  to  your  senses,  then?" 

"  I've  never  lost  'em." 

"  That's  only  one  of  your  confounded  lies." 

"  If  I  should  tell  Dora  that  you  had  insulted  me  like 
this  you  would  deny  you  had  done  so." 

He  laughed,  leaning  back  in  his  chair  and  non- 
chalantly using  a  tooth-pick.  "It's  so  like  a  woman 
of  your  kidney  to  go  and  wash  her  dirty  linen  in 
public." 

"My  two  sisters  are  not  'public,'  if  you  please. 
They  are  my  dearest  friends  in  the  world— and  al- 
ways shall  be,  till  death  alters  things.  .  .  Austin,  see 
here,"  and  now  Eunice  rose  from  her  chair.  "  Do  you 
want  me  to  be  your  wife  or  your  slave— which  ?"  He 
laughed  again,  and  this  time  the  laugh  had  blades  in 
it  that  cut  her.  "  I  want  you  to  beg  my  pardon  for 
the  name  you  called  me." 

"Austin,  I  will  never  beg  you  pardon,"  came  the 
answer.  "I  will  never  humble  myself  to  you  again. 
I  am  willing  to  live  with  you  on  equal  terms,  but  on 

no  others.  I  have  done  nothing  to  deserve  your  pres- 
15 


226  WOMEN  MUST  WEEP 

ent  treatment.  We  can't  get  on  like  this,  not  speak- 
ing to  one  another,  and  unless  you  consent  to  act 
civilly  it  is  better  we  did  not  get  on  at  all." 

"Oh,  not  get  on  at  all,  eh?"  he  said,  and  she  saw 
him  grow  white,  and  knew  that  she  had  angered  him. 
Then  as  he  rose  he  smiled  again,  but  the  smile  was 
somehow  different,  with  less  mockery  in  it  and  a  sort 
of  tigerish  keenness. 

"No,"  replied  Eunice.  "I've  borne  all  from  you  that 
I  intend  to  bear.  You  speak  of  my  begging  your  par- 
don ;  if  you  begged  mine  twenty  times  it  wouldn't 
cover  the  horrid  things  you've  said  to  me.  We  must 
begin  all  over  again,  Austin  Legree,  or  we  must  .  . 
separate." 

She  pronounced  that  last  word  with  hesitancy,  even 
plain  reluctance.  But  no  sooner  had  she  done  so  than 
Austin  shot  up  to  her  side  with  eyes  blazing  and 
hands  clenched. 

The  fiend  in  him  was  horribly  uppermost,  then.  If 
he  had  married  many  another  woman  than  just  this 
Eunice  whom  he  had  married,  he  would  have  coerced 
her  into  submission  in  a  trice  by  his  lurid  look,  by  his 
fury,  masculine  though  unmanly. 

"You  devil,"  he  shot  out  between  working  lips, 
"you  won't  obey  me  as  a  wife  should?  You  won't?" 
And  he  glared  into  her  face,  with  his  body  touching 
hers. 

"I  told  you  I  wouldn't  be  your  slave," said  Eunice, 
never  receding  from  him  an  inch. 

"  Slave !  Pooh !  Tell  me  you're  sorry  that  you  called 
me  a  blackguard." 

Eunice  choked,  and  then,  with  a  defiance  that  was 
magnificent,  gasped  out :  "  I  told  you  so  and  I  tell  it 
you  again !"  In  that  fleet  instant  all  her  love  for  him 


WOMEN  MUST  WEEP  227 

died,  shrivelling  into  naught,  as  a  rose-leaf  shrivels 
under  flame.  "  You  are  a  blackguard,  Austin  Legree, 
and  you " 

Then  he  struck  her.  She  was  Eunice,  the  self-opinon- 
ated,  hardy-spirited  Eunice,  and  she  struck  back,  or 
tried  to  do  so.  Then  he  smote  her  again,  this 
time  with  his  clenched  hand,  and  she  gave  a  great 
scream,  falling  half  stunned  upon  the  floor. 

Everything  whirled  round  her  while  she  lay  there 
for  several  seconds.  And  then,  suddenly,  she  saw  a 
new  man  bend  over  her.  It  was  not  Austin  Legree, 
at  first  she  vaguely  told  herself— surely  it  was  not. 
This  trembling,  \veeping  creature  looked  so  unlike 
Austin.  And  }'et  it  actually  was  he. 

"  Eunice!"  he  moaned.  "For  God's  sake  forgive  me! 
I — I  didn't  mean  it.  You  .fcflowhow  seldom  I'm  angry. 
Let  me  help  you — Eunice,  I  could  kill  myself  for  strik- 
ing you  like  that !  I " 

"  Then  go  and  kill  yourself,  you  mean  brute !"  cried 
a  voice.  It  was  Catharine's,  and  Eunice,  half  lifted, 
half  staggering  to  her  feet,  knew  whose  arms  helped 
her. 

"My  head,"  she  murmured,  reeling  dizzily  as  she 
rose.  "Oh,  Catharine,  don't  let  him  touch  me !" 

"  He'd  better  nottry,  ma'am  !"  growled  Catharine, 
with  a  black  look  at  Legree. 

"Get  me — get  me  to  my  sister's  rooms,"  Eunice 
pleaded. 

Catharine  got  her  there.    When  Dora  saw  her,  a 
great  purplish  mark  had  begun  to  show  itself  over 
one  of  her  brows. 

"You — you  must  never  let  me  live  with  that  man 
again,"  Eunice  gasped  to  Dora;  and  then  she  burst 
into  a  leaping,  excited  laugh.  "  Anybody  else  would 


228  WOMEN  MUST  WEEP 

faint  away,  "she  went  on,  catching  her  breath  wildly, 
but  I  only  get  redder  in  the  face,  Dora,  don't  I?" 

"  Eunice !  Eunice !  "  cried  Dora,  as  she  bent  over  her 
sister  in  agony  and  horror. 

Just  then  Kinnicutt  entered.  As  he  did  so  Legree 
appeared,  pushing  past  Catharine,  by  another  door. 

"  I  want  to  say "  Legree  began. 

"Harvey!"  cried  Dora,  leaving  the  side  of  Eunice 
where  she  had  sunk  on  a  sofa,  "if  you  don't  put  that 
man  out  of  our  home  I'll  never  look  at  you  again !" 

Legree  receded.  Kinnicutt,  swiftly  understanding, 
forced  him  across  the  threshold  he  had  just  crossed. 

"I — I  will  never  live  with  him  after  this;"  were 
Eunice's  first  words,  while  Dora  stood  over  her  and 
bathed  with  cold  water  the  brow  so  cruelly  abraded. 

"You  never  shall!  You  never  shall!"  rang  from 
Dora.  "I'd  go  in  rags  before  I  let  3rou  !"  And  stoop- 
ing she  kissed  the  great  darkening  bruise  that  she  had 
bathed. 


XVII 

Legree  was  full  of  repentances,  but  they  availed  him 
nothing.  Eunice  refused  ever  to  enter  the  doors  of 
the  suite  of  rooms  she  had  quitted,  and  Dora  seconded 
her  stoutly  in  this  resolve. 

"  You  live  with  us,"  Dora  said.  "  We'll  take  care  of 
you,  Harvey  and  I.  Susan  was  luckily  saying  she 
had  to  leave,  and  Catharine — dear,  good  old  Cathar- 
ine ! — can  come  in  and  take  her  place." 

Meanwhile  Legree's  remorse  was  terrible.  He  real- 
ized his  own  infamous  action,  and  hung  for  several 
days  about  the  closed  doors  of  the  Kinnicutt  apart- 
ments. But  they  were  never  opened  to  him.  Dora 
met  him  once  or  twice  with  a  stony  stare,  and  always 
flung  at  him  the  same  words — ' '  Your  wife  is  a  widow. ' ' 

Annette,  coming  to  her  sisters,  joined  them  in  their 
fierce  disclaimers.  To  Legree  she  said,  with  curled 
lips  and  flashing  eyes  :  "  Don't  ask  me  to  pity  you.  If 

I  were  only  a  man  I'd "  and  then  she  retired, 

breaking  into  tears. 

Utterly  cowed,  Legree  gave  up  the  siege.  Policy 
began  to  thrust  its  voice  through  remorse,  and  he 
dreaded  that  the  tale  of  his  brutality  might  transpire 
and  ruin  the  augmenting  sale  of  his  Opaline  Oil.  At 


230  WOMEN  MUST  WEEP 


the  end  of  the  month  he  relinquished  the  rooms  where 
he  and  Eunice  had  done  their  first  and  last  connubial 
housekeeping.  But  still  in  spite  of  even  so  radical  a 
step  he  did  not  abandon  hope.  He  might  as  well  have 
put  faith  in  the  falling  of  the  sky,  and  yet  his  reason 
for  persistence  in  the  belief  that  Eunice  would  at 
length  surrender  was  based  on  his  control  of  the  fam- 
ily finances.  From  this  control  he  had  not  yet  been 
asked  to  resign.  Would  he  receive  any  such  request, 
and  would  not  the  fact  of  his  superior  keenness  in  all 
business  matters  tempt  his  wife  to  take  the  more  ex- 
pedient course  of  try  ing  him  again?  HarveA^Kinnicutt 
had  not  the  faintest  needful  equipment  of  a  monetary 
manager.  Who  else  was  there  to  supervise  paA^ments 
and  investments,  moderate  though  the  task  might 
be?  Surely  not  Gordon  Ammidown,  with  this  horrid 
recurrent  vice  of  his,  the  subject  of  recent  damning 
disclosures.  Well,  then,  had  he  not  only  to  wait? 
True,  Eunice  had  ignored  the  long,  humble  and  im- 
ploring letter  which  he  had  written  her.  But  that 
letter  had  had  its  effect,  however  discouragingly  Kin- 
nicutt  may  have  stated  otherwise.  Oh,  yes,  a  turn 
of  the  tide  would  come. 

But  though  a  turn  of  the  tide  did  come,  it  brought 
only  final  and  unforeseen  rebuff.  One  day  in  early  sum- 
mer Andrew  Heffernan  presented  him  self  at  the  Green- 
wich avenue  drug-shop.  He  looked  very  altered  and 
ill,  but  he  spoke  to  Legree  with  a  force  and  directness 
that  could  not  be  parried.  Heffernan  was  rigor  itself. 
He  could  not  have  been  much  plainer  in  act  or  speech. 
He  refused  Legree's  offered  hand ;  he  required  in  the 
names  of  the  three  sisters  who  \vere  his  nieces  by  mar- 
riage a  complete  restitution  of  the  stewardship  Eu- 
nice's husband  had  held. 


WOMEN  MUST  WEEP  231 

"There  ain't  any  use  of  kicking,"  said  this  cold 
and  stern  ambassador.  "  Your  wife  '11  never  look  at 
you  again,  and  I  don't  blame  her  that  she  won't. 
You've  made  your  bed,  young  man,  and  you  must 
lay  on  it.  You're  not  wanted  any  more  round  those 
parts,  and  you  needn't  think  there's  the  ghost  of  a 
chance  for  you.  Hand  over  everything — bank-books, 
papers  of  agreement,  all  that  belongs  to  Eunice  and  her 
relations.  You  ain't  in  it,  from  now  till  the  day  you' 
die,  and  if  you  choose  to  go  into  some  other  state 
and  get  a  divorce  and  marry  again,  I  guess  nobody  '11 
care.  If  Eunice  ever  wanted  to  marry  again  it  would 
be  different ;  but  I've  talked  with  her  and  I'm  pretty 
sure  she'll  never  try  matrimony  a  second  time;  she's 
had  enough  of  it  after  the  devilish  side  of  it  she's  seen, 
thanks  to  your  dirty  capers.  I  didn't  suspect  you 
could  behave  like  such  a  hound— but  we  won't  talk 
about  that.  We're  square  on  the  money  I  lent  you, 
and  I  can  only  say  you'd  never  have  got  a  cent  of  it 
if  I'd  known  the  stuff  you're  made  of." 

Legree,  thrilling  with  despairful  reluctance,  cut  him- 
self loose  from  the  last  bond  of  hope  between  himself 
and  his  injured  wife.  Heffernan,  from  that  hour, 
took  charge  of  the  Trask  property;  which  he 
at  once  proceeded  to  manipulate  with  benevolent 
dishonesty.  He  coolly  placed  moneys  to  the 
credit  of  his  nieces  which  had  never  accrued  to 
them  from  the  limited  little  paternal  estate. 
He  employed  a  kind  of  generously  astute  cunning,  and 
invented  reasons  for  their  increased  riches  which 
looked  and  sounded  as  plausible  as  though  they  had 
been  the  shrewd  stealings  of  some  adroit  rogue.  He 
artfully  improved  the  three  buildings  their  father  had 
left  them,  and  did  so  at  such  a  liberal  private  outlay 


232  WOMEN  MUST  WEEP 

that  the  rent  of  each  structure  was  augmented  by- 
several  hundreds  of  dollars  a  year.  Nobody  guessed 
the  truth  of  these  amiable  frauds  except  his  wife,  and 
she,  enchanted  by  their  neat  sagacity,  was  the  last 
person  in  the  world  to  expose  them. 

A  bitter  lesson  had  been  taught  Legree.  Before  the 
defiance  shown  him  he  recoiled  in  guilty  disarray.  His 
remorse  now  became  anguish,  for  he  stood  gazing,  as 
it  were,  into  the  strange,  muddy  depths  of  his  own 
soul  and  saw  there  the  clouded  light  of  an  unperished 
love.  It  was  to  be  his  doom  that  he  must  go  on  lov- 
ing Eunice  for  years  yet,  if  not  for  the  rest  of  his  life- 
time. A  dreadful  languor  came  over  him,  and  it 
seemed  as  though  his  very  character  changed.  If 
there  was  a  fortune  in  his  Opaline  Oil  he  failed  to  reap 
it,  and  at  length  sold  the  patent  to  a  man  who  was 
soon  rumored  to  make  from  it  many  thousands.  The 
old  ambition  had  died  out  of  him,  and  such  a  morbid 
shame  had  taken  its  place  that  he  sometimes  fancied 
that  he  saw  passers-by  and  street-boys  point  jeering- 
ly  at  his  shop-windows  as  that  of  the  man  who  had 
beaten  his  wife.  After  a  while  Greenwich  avenue  be- 
came for  this  reason  intolerable  to  him,  and  he  re- 
moved from  it,  going  far  away  into  a  side-street  that 
gave  on  the  Bowery.  His  career  now  became  per- 
fectly neutral.  He  neither  failed  nor  succeeded ;  he 
simply  went  on  living.  His  life  had  been  ruined,  and 
yet  no  one  among  his  new  neighbors  had  any  suspic- 
ion that  this  was  true.  If  Eunice  had  pardoned 
him  and  taken  him  back  he  \vould  have  proved  ever 
afterward  the  meekest  of  husbands.  Yet  how  could 
Eunice,  or  any  living  being  save  Legree  himself,  know 
this?  There  lies  a  world  of  pathos  in  just  that  ignor- 
ance of  each  other's  changed  hearts  which  build  dense 


WOMEN  MUST  WEEP  233 

walls,  very  often,  between  two  spirits  that  might  re- 
accost  one  another  in  almost  ideal  amity.  Had  she 
known  the  depth  and  breadth  of  this  man's  grief  and 
self-disgust,  she  might  have  striven  again  to  care  for 
him,  and  perhaps  have  warmed  up  a  few  embers  of 
affection,  in  spite  of  clogging  ashes,  on  the  void  and 
forlorn  hearths  tone  of  their  lost  nuptial  content.  Pos- 
sibly to  have  a  complete  recognition  of  him  would 
have  meant  for  her  a  complete  revivified  love.  But  as 
it  was,  the  disjunction  remained  absolute.  Legree's 
letter  had  not  moved  her ;  a  glimpse  into  his  dulled 
and  chilled  life  might  have  done  so.  But  that  form 
of  circumstance  which  we  call  accident  forbade  her 
such  an  experience. 

All  the  freshness,  alertness  and  assertiveness  of  Le- 
grees's  manned  died  out.  He  slipped  (no  doubt  un- 
consciously to  himself)  among  the  vast  throngs  of 
the  completely  commonplace.  It  was  a  terrible  punish- 
ment for  one  who  had  been  so  dominating  in  his  per- 
sonality, and  he  felt  it  as  a  strong  man  may  feel  bonds 
that  constrain  muscles  yet  in  the  prime  of  their  vigor. 
As  a  sure  result  of  such  mental  distress,  he  took  to 
the  alleviation  of  drugs.  They  were  at  his  hand  in 
his  shop,  and  he  had  only  to  strench  forth  that  hand 
and  accept  their  flattering  yet  perilous  ease.  The  end, 
from  that  time,  though  prolonged  through  years, 
was  inevitable.  If  Eunice  had  cared  for  what  is  termed 
an  exquisite  revenge,  she  might  have  found  one  by 
watching  the  downfall  of  her  husband,  gradual  and 
yet  wofully  certain. 

It  was  not  that  Legree's  curious  love  for  her  had 
shattered  and  spoiled  him.  It  was  a  moral  element  in 
the  man  himself  that  had  risen  and  caught  him  by 
the  throat,  like  an  incarnate  spectre  of  retribution. 


234  WOMEN  MUST  WEEP 

He  had  started  with  a  great  faith  in  himself  and  a 
conviction  that  he  understood  himself  thoroughly. 
Some  inherited  curse  had  pushed  its  bane  into  his 
blood;  and  on  the  frenzies  of  impulse  to  crush  be- 
neath his  heel  the  woman  who  had  in  a  way  glided 
under  the  aegis  of  his  possessorship,  he  had  never 
remotely  dreamed  of  counting.  That  force — the  force  of 
the  household  bully  and  blackguard  in  him — he  had 
found  too  powerful  for  overthrow.  As  events  in  his 
special  case  directed,  it  had  overthrown  him.  And 
yet,  as  often  in  brooding  hours  of  reflection  he 
would  tell  his  own  thoughts,  there  \vere  m3rriads 
of  his  fellows  now  alive  who  had  begun  with  their 
wives  just  as  he  had  begun  and  reduced  them  to 
actual  cringing  servants  within  two  or  three  years. 
Here  Legree  was  perfectly  right.  In  many  a  home 
to-day  the  husband  is  precisely  that  species  of  do- 
mestic monster  which  his  evil  genius  had  made  him 
eager  to  become.  Who  reads  these  words  without 
power  to  recall  marriages  where  the  wife  has  bowed 
in  despicable  submission  to  her  husband's  nod?  "Get 

me  my  slippers "    "  Fetch  me  my  umbrella " 

"Bring  me  my  cigar  box  and  some  matches  along 

with  it "    These  are  orders  constantly  heard  from 

marital  lips  and  constantly  obej^ed  with  not  even  a 
murmur  of  revolt.  But  after  all,  such  phrases  of 
command  are  merely  surface-signs  of  an  autocracy 
that  feeds  on  far  deeper  springs  of  sway.  There  are 
wives  whose  acts  are  not  alone  salaams  and  pros- 
trations, but  whose  opinions,  too,  have  knee-joints 
to  kneel  \vith  in  melancholy  limberness.  These 
women  suppress  themselves  as  wholly  as  do  the 
lolling  inmates  of  seraglios,  except  that  they  are 
drudges  no  less  than  favorites.  Their  very  existence 


WOMEN  MUST  WEEP  235 

is  a  challenge  to  the  attainment  of  that  "equal 
rights  "  ideal  held  so  fondly  a  cult  among  the  strong- 
er of  their  sex.  They  begin  by  not  wishing  to  think 
except  as  their  husbands  do,  and  they  end  by  not 
daring.  In  the  instance  of  Legree  and  Eunice,  subju- 
gation was  attempted  and  failure  followed,  though 
led  up  to  by  animal  cruelty.  In  countless  other  in- 
stances the  subjugation,  even  when  blows  have  to 
be  struck  for  its  full  attainment,  is  secured  at  last. 
The  blows,  whether  they  leave  or  do  not  leave  a 
mark,  are  kept  secret.  Volumes  of  horrors  might  be 
written  on  the  tacit  martyrdoms  of  women.  Eunice, 
who  did  not  care  to  contribute  her  biography  to  the 
series,  yet  deserved  a  brief  notice  there,  like  the 
memoir  given  a  minor  poet  among  more  copious 
tributes  to  singers  of  a  hardier  note. 

It  is  true  that  the  present  chronicle  has  no  further 
concern  with  Austin  Legree,  and  yet  there  may  be 
interest  in  a  swift  record  of  his  later  life,  partly  be- 
cause it  furnished  a  kind  of  ironic  corollary  to  his 
past  and  partly  because  it  was  tinged  with  that  so- 
termed  poetical  justice  which  rarely  may  be  traced 
or  even  glimpsed  outside  the  pages  of  legend  or  ro- 
mance. 

JustasHeffernan  had  bluntly  hinted,  the  husband  of 
Eunice  at  length  crossed  into  another  state  and  mar- 
ried again.  The  woman  whom  he  married  made  no 
demure  on  the  question  of  his  obtaining  a  divorce  in 
New  York.  She  was  a  languid,  mild-mannered  girl, 
the  daughter  of  a  neighboring  keeper  of  a  beer-saloon, 
and  anxious  to  escape  from  the  dominion  of  a  step- 
mother whom  she  detested.  She  understood  perfectly 
that  the  marriage  was  legally  null,  and  yet  she  pre- 
ferred that  course  to  becoming  the  acknowledged 


236  WOMEN  MUST  WEEP 

mistress  of  Legree.  Nobody  except  herself  knew 
that  he  had  another  wife  living  not  far  away.  All 
the  druggist's  old  acquaintances  had  drifted  from  his 
ken.  He  had  no  special  regard  for  Hannah  Enstein; 
he  merely  yielded  to  her  pseudo-matrimonial  per- 
suasions. |  He  thought  her  a  kindly,  gentle  sort  of 
girl,  and  indeed  her  blonde  look  and  rather  feeble  build 
so  indicated. 

But  the  mock  wedding  in  Jersey  City  was  scarcely 
over  before  he  woke  to  a  sense  of  her  tart  and  shrew- 
ish turn.  She  was  no  more  the  Hannah  Enstein  he 
had  believed  himself  to  have  wedded  than  if  she  had 
suddenly  washed  away  some  skillful  kind  of  facial 
fresco  and  revealed  the  tints  of  a  negress.  She  snub- 
bed him  when  she  did  not  scold,  and  while  doing 
neither  she  treated  him  with  the  indifference  we 
bestow  on  bores.  Legree  saw  in  her  demeanor  a  sort 
of  mirror,  where  his  own  humbled  spirit  looked 
forth  at  him  with  painful  scorn.  And  yet  he  never 
fought  against  her.  Arrogance  was  dead  in  him; 
the  mordant  scorch  of  his  former  shame  had  killed 
it.  He  sometimes  thought  that  Hannah  possessed  a 
peculiar  power  over  him,  half  physical,  half  mental. 
But  he  could  never  feel  quite  sure  on  this  point.  She 
ruled  him ;  that  he  knew,  and  there  were  also  times 
when  he  told  himself  that  if  their  union  had  been  one 
for  which  the  law  held  no  punitive  terrors  he  might 
have  retaliated  with  all  his  old  fire.  As  it  was,  she 
flung  their  precarious  mode  of  life  in  his  face,  and 
instead  of  showing  the  least  dread  that  he  should  re- 
mind her  of  the  disgrace  that  might  spring  upon 
them  any  day  from  a  charge  of  bigamy  against  him- 
self, she  would  coolly  refer  to  'the  chances  of  this 
charge  being  made,  as  though  it  were  some  threat 


WOMEN  MUST  WEEP  237 

like  that  of  heart  failure  or  of  contagion  from  small- 
pox. All  in  all,  Legree's  days  became  a  burden  to 
him.  The  memory  of  Eunice  was  like  a  vision  of 
lost  and  bartered  beatitude.  He  grew  to  be.  mocked 
at  as  a  henpecked  husband  of  the  most  ludicrous 
type.  Finally  his  secret  excesses  \vith  morphine  were 
discovered  by  Hannah,  who  had  for  some  time  sus- 
pected them.  Her  fury  was  almost  barbaric,  and 
finally  took  the  form  of  blows.  Repeatedly  these  at- 
tacks occurred,  and  one  day,  when  he  entered  his 
rooms  half  demented  from  the  drug,  his  old  devil 
awoke  after  long  slumber,  like  the  afrite  that  vacated 
the  Arabian  flagon.  He  rushed  on  Hannah  and 
cleft  her  skull  horribly  with  some  sort  of  quick- 
seized  weapon,  killing  himself  inside  the  next  ten 
minutes.  It  was  one  of  those  hideous  tragedies  that 
reach  us  through  the  newspapers  twice  or  thrice  a 
a  week,  if  not  oftener.  Eunice  heard  of  it,  and  shud- 
dered at  the  thought  of  her  own  escape.  Still,  she 
might  not  have  done  so.  Her  pardon  of  Legree 
would  have  saved  him  for  a  life  of  decency  and  thrift ; 
her  implacable  repulsion  had  brought  him  to  the 
horrid  downfall  which  rounded  his  days.  She 
was  not  to  blame,  and  yet  her  unpitying  course 
had  produced  this  ghastly  result.  We  may  shut 
our  eyes  to  the  facts  of  these  fatal  influences  being 
often  guiltlessly  effected  by  one  life  upon  another  in 
this  curious  turmoil  and  tangle  of  human  exist- 
ence. But  such  avoidance  and  deprecation  will 
not  serve  us.  The  truth  remains:  we  make  and 
mar  each  other's  lives  by  the  mere  process  of  pre- 
serving our  own.  And  if  we  think  of  how  many 
calamities  may  be .  wrought,  and  how  many  are 
daily  and  hourly  wrought,  by  the  simple  unavoid- 


238  WOMEN  MUST  WEEP 

able  jostling  of  soul  againt  soul,  with  what  pregnant 
and  tremendous  argument  should  this  recognition 
appeal  to  us  when  it  becomes  a  question  of  how 
much  good  we  can  do  our  fellow-mortals  in  compara- 
tively minor  ways!— when  we  consider  the  untold 
value  of  a  kindly  or  merciful  deed,  the  infinite  potency 
of  even  an  aidful  or  compassionate  word ! 

Not,  however,  until  years  had  passed  did  Eunice 
find  herself  confronted  by  the  grim  tidings  of  her 
husband's  end.  After  Heffernan's  good  offices  with 
regard  to  the  family  property  she  learned  of  Legree's 
removal  from  the  old  Greenwich  avenue  quarters, 
and  there  her  knowledge,  as  that  of  Harvey  Kinni- 
cutt  and  all  her  relations,  permanently  ceased.  But 
in  her  changed  mode  of  living  Eunice  neither  posed 
as  a  disappointed  woman  nor  felt  the  faintest  cause 
for  playing  any  such  cheerless  part.  Indeed,  she  could 
now  follow  her  former  bent  of  la wgiving  and  leader- 
ship. She  adored  her  little  namesake,  Dora's  daugh- 
ter, and  had  soon  brought  about  between  the  child 
and  herself  relations  almost  maternal.  Kinnicutt  paid 
her  a  good  deal  of  solid  deference,  and  once,  while 
Dora  was  absent,  made  such  tender  overtures  that 
she  first  looked  at  him  with  startled  bewilderment 
and  then  burst  into  a  great  ridiculing  laugh.  Kinni- 
cutt joined  in  the  laugh,  with  extreme  good  humor. 
That  he  should  be  left  alone  in  the  society  of  any 
young  woman  even  passably  good-looking  was  but 
another  mode  of  saying  that  he  should  pay  her  court. 
From  Kinnicutt  the  posture  of  the  mere  shallow 
sensualist  was  absent  at  all  times.  Inside  the  limits 
of  a  certain  age  he  admired  nearly  every  woman  he 
met.  If  she  had  a  single  good  point,  in  a  physical 
sense,  he  instantly  perceived  it,  gave  it  full  credit  for 


WOMEN  MUST  WEEP  239 

being.  As  for  evil  intentions,  to  accuse  him  of  these 
-would  have  been  almost  like  blaming  a  sunflower  for 
turning  toward  the  dawn.  It  is  perhaps  wholly 
within  the  truth  of  things  to  state  that  he  was  the 
abject  slave  of  a  temperament  innately  amorous. 
To  accuse  him  \vould  be  to  declare  that  the  sweep  of 
human  will  is  wider  than  some  of  our  best  philoso- 
phers concede.  Kinnicutt  never  thought  about  these 
matters;  he  had  not  the  kind  of  mind  that  thinks 
about  them.  Eunice's  treatment  of  him  had  seemed 
to  preclude  the  idea  of  her  ever  ''telling  Dora."  And 
afterward,  when  he  became  quite  sure  that  Dora  had 
not  been  told,  he  approached  Eunice  in  a  vein  of 
gentle  confidence  which  disarmed  while  it  distressed 
her. 

Eunice  had  her  fierce  moral  acerbities,  but  in  the 
presence  of  Kinnicutt's  gentle  and  captivating  con- 
fessions, even  she  became  complaisant.  Kinnicutt 
belonged  to  that  type  of  man  who  might  win  a  Me- 
dusa not  only  not  to  turn  him  into  stone,  but  to 
tame  for  him  the  snakes  among  her  curls  through  the 
processes  of  mild  manipulation. 

Eunice,  disarmed  by  her  brother-in-law's  natural 
\vinsonieness,  frowned  on  him  with  a  touch  of  par- 
don in  her  frown. 

"Oh,  Harvey,"  she  said,  "do  you  mean  to  tell  me 
that  you  ever  see  any  woman  you  could  like  as  you 
do  Dora." 

And  then  Kinnicutt  framed  a  gallant  answer,  which 
flattered  Eunice  in  spite  of  herself,  and  made  her 
think  that  her  brother-in-law  had,  after  all,  the  nicest 
and  sweetest  ways.  There  is  no  woman  who  does 
not  love  devotion;  and  though  Eunice  detested  mari- 
tal infidelity  with  her  whole  soul,  she  nevertheless 


240  WOMEN  MUST  WEEP 

clad  her  view  of  Harvey's  courtesies  with  little  pris- 
matic edges  of  indulgence. 

Her  appreciation  of  Kinriicutt's  obeisance  was 
thoroughly  harmless.  There  was  no  flavor  in  it  of 
disloyalty  to  Dora.  She  liked  to  be  liked,  and  there 
her  slightest  trend  of  treachery  had  its  limit.  Often, 
in  those  Seventh  avenue  lodgings,  her  tears  gushed 
forth  with  solitary  sadness  over  the  realization  of 
what  wreck  Fate  had  wrought  of  her  own  live.  But 
no  one  ever  really  knew  how  her  wound  bled.  During 
the  summer  that  now  ensued,  Dora,  who  fell  ill  and 
had  to  be  nursed,  more  than  once  thanked  God  that 
Eunice  was  so  companionably  near. 

The  summer,  always  so  odious  in  New  York, 
proved  a  keen  trial  to  Eunice.  Being  ill  and  languid, 
Dora  did  not  seem  to  mind  its  ardors  of  heat.  But 
Annette  brought  forlorn  tidings  of  Gordon's  new 
lapse.  For  weeks  he  had  kept  straight  and  right .  . 
now,  suddenly  he  had  again  broken  bonds 

"Your  married  life  is  a  mockery,"  Eunice  told  An- 
nette. "We  thought  we  were  marrying  you  so  well, 
Dora  and  I!  How  little  we  dreamed  of  the  real 
truth!" 

"I'd  rather  have  him  just  as  he  is  than  not  have 
him  at  all,"  Annette  had  answered. 

And  so  the  days  went  on.  Gordon  recovered  from 
his  new  attack.  The  change  in  the  weather  put  ver- 
nal flowers  among  the  plots  of  Central  Park,  and 
then,  in  a  few  days,  as  one  might  say,  summer  leaped 
on  the  town,  fierce  and  uncompromising.  The 
Seventh  avenue  apartments  were  not  conducive  to 
happiness,  after  that.  They  were  excessively  hot, 
and  Eunice  advised  an  out-of-town  sojourn.  An- 
nette had  already  gone  away  for  the  summer,  and 


WOMEN  MUST  WEEP  241 

her  example  had  its  weight.  One  could  not  keep  cool 
by  speaking  of  "my  sister,  Mrs.  Ammidown,  who. is 
in  a  cottage,  you  know,  at  Saratoga,"  however  re- 
freshing might  be  such  a  disclosure  to  one's  family 
pride.  And  so  the  little  Kinnicutt  household  left 
town,  though  not  for  a  cottage  at  Saratoga.  They 
went  to  a  large,  'cheap,  third-rate  hotel  not  far  away, 
where  there  were  negro  servants  with  white  cotton 
gloves  who  waited  on  the  guests  in  a  huge  malodorous 
dining-room,  and  \vhere  you  got  "  a  view"  from  the 
piazza,  which  was  a  combination  of  the  Corinthian 
and  the  New  Jersey.  Kinnicutt  came  up  every  night, 
or  sometimes  early  in  the  afternoon.  The  people  in 
the  hotel  were  what  is  called  "sociable,"  which  often 
means  gossipful  and  dangerous.  Before  they  knew 
it  Eunice  and  Dora  had  made  a  few  foes.  Two  of 
these  were  ladies  on  whom  Kinnicutt  beamed  with 
more  than  the  ordinary  radiance.  Dora  at  once 
showed  toward  both  of  them  a  kind  of  smoldering 
disapproval.  This  they  resented,  and  scandal  was 
the  result.  Eunice  of  course  knew  everything,  and 
Dora,  in  her  bitter  annoyance  and  chagrin,  told  of 
the  wretched  episode  which  had  cost  her,  not  long 
ago,  such  a  tremor  of  agony. 

"It's  too  perfectly  awful,"  said  Eunice,  with  knit- 
ted brows.  "  I  never  dreamed  he  was  like  that.  And 
now  his  behavior  here!  Oh,  Dora,  you  shouldn't 
live  with  him  !  " 

' '  Shouldn'  1 1  ?  "  said  Dora,  at  once  bridling.  "Please 
let  me  be  the  judge  of  that,  Eunice.  You  can  leave 
your  husband  if  you  choose.  I  married  mine  more 
with  my  heart  than  with  my  head." 

"  Dora,"  cried  Eunice,  "  do  you  mean  to  infer ?  " 

"I  mean  to  infer  nothing." 
16 


242  WOMEN  MUST  WEEP 

11  Oh,  yes  you  do.    And  it's  outrageous  of  you !  " 

Then  a  really  fierce  quarrel  occurred,  during  \vhich 
Eunice  held  her  sister's  baby  in  her  arms,  and  after 
which  the  two  contestants  spoke  to  one  another  as 
if  not  a  shadow  of  dissension  had  come  between 
them.  But  Eunice,  with  her  vigor  of  individualism, 
left  a  distinct  persuasive  mark  t>n  (Dora.  That 
evening,  when  her  husband  came  back  to  the  hotel, 
she  addressed  him  savagely. 

"Harvey,  you've  made  frightful  trouble  here. 
Eunice  thinks  we  ought  to  leave  at  once." 

Kinnicutt  lifted  his  blonde  brows  in  an  infantile 
way.  "  Eunice  must  be  crazy,"  he  said. 

"No,  she  isn't.  You've  carried  on  awfully.  I  don't 

say  you  meant  it.  No,  I  won't  say  that,  after 

But  you  understand." 

"I'll  be  hanged  if  I  do  understand,"  affirmed  Kinni- 
cutt. 

"Your  behavior  with  Mrs.  Rawlinson,"  began 
Dora,  "is " 

"Oh,  stuff  and  nonsense!  Mrs.  Rawlinson,  Dora, 
is  old  enough  to  be  my  mother." 

"Not  quite.  But  she's  old  enough  to  conduct  her- 
self more  decently  than  she  does.  And  then  that  girl, 
Eva  Brand  .  .  Why  the  whole  hotel  is  talking  about 
your  goings-on  with  her!  " 

"Now,  Dora,  think.  You've  been  a  good  deal  en- 
gaged with  Baby,  both  afternoons  and  evenings. 
I " 

"  Oh,  don't  begin  that  way.    You " 

"But,  Dora,  it's  true.    I  haven't " 

"Yes,  you  have!  And,  Harvey,  you  know  it's  dis- 
graceful to " 

"Disgraceful  to  treat  one  or  two  pretty  women 


WOMEN  MUST  W&EP  243 

politely.    That's  all  I've  ever  thought  of  doing,  Dora 
darling,  and — 

' ' '  Dora  darling ! '  Yes !  Eunice  warned  me  of  that 
kind  of  talk!" 

"Oh,  Eunice  be — blowed!"  exclaimed  Kinnicutt, 
but  without  the  faintest  sign  of  anger. 

"All  right !  "  cried  Dora,  not  only  angry  but  suffer- 
ing. "I'll  tell  her  you  said  that ! " 

"  Don't.    She's  lovely.    I'm  very  fond  of  Eunice." 
•    "Oh,  are  you?"  faltered  Dora,  gnawing  her  lips. 
"  You're  very  fond,  I  begin  to  think,  of  almost  every 
woman  you  meet." 

' '  Now,  Dora,  look  here. ' '  As  Kinnicutt  thus  spoke, 
with  his  face  wreathed  in  smiles  that  few  \vomen 
could  ever  see  and  not  be  somehow  allured  by,  he 
went  close  to  Dora  and  deftly  caught  both  her  hands 
in  his  own. 

"Now  look  here,  now  look  here,"  he  continued,  and 
began  to  swing  her  hands  to  and  fro  while  he  stooped 
and  kissed  each  of  them  twice  or  thrice.  "  This  Mrs. 
Rawlinson  is  a  horrid,  designing  old  frump.  But 
she  isn't  bad  to  look  at  when  she's  fixed  up  her 
played-out  complexion  and  can  get  a  good  light  to 
hide  the  signs  of  repair  ..." 

"Hush,  Harvey,**  scowled  Dora,  "this  is  nothing 
but  your  humbug.  I  won't  listen  to  it,  I " 

"Yes,  you  shall  listen,  you  little  goose!  "  And  he 
had  kissed  her  on  the  lips  before  she  knew.  "  A  man, 
Dora,  love,  is  so  different  from  a  woman.  Why, 
good  gracious,  you  ought  to  take  our  temptations 
into  account !  That  creature  has  gone  forme  as  I  ... 
Well,  Dora,  I  won't  say  any  more.  You  cang-«ess." 

"I  .  .  I've  guessed  already  just  how  you've  gone 
for  her"  murmured  Dora,  with  an  irrepressible  belief 


244  WOMEN  MUST  WEEP 

in  this  last  statement,  try  hard  as  she  would  to 
crush  it  down.  Kinnicutt's  face,  as  it  smiled  into 
hers,  was  so  winsomely  handsome  that  his  declara- 
tion seemed  fraught  with  an  immense  verifying  force. 
"But  this  Eva  Brand,  Harvey.  She  didn't  go  for 
you! " 

" Oh-ho !"  cried  Kinnicutt.  "Didn't  she,  though ?" 
And  then  he  went  on  to  say  disparaging  things 
about  Eva  Brand,  whom  he  had  really  drawn  into  a 
passionate  attachment  for  himself.  He  said  these 
things  with  the  easy  lying  that  a  man  of  this  light  and 
careless  calibre  can  always  let  so  gracefully  slip  from 
his  lips.  And  poor  Dora  listened,  believing.  It  was 
not  hard  to  believe  him  a  person  of  the  most  enchant- 
ing equipments.  Before  that  interview  ended  she  felt 
convinced  that  in  their  separate  ways  Mrs.  Rawlinson 
d.nd  Eva  Brand  were  women  of  the  most  shocking 
boldness. 

By  this  time  it  was  August,  and  the  whole  vulgar 
hotel  was  in  a  ferment  of  silly  gabble.  After  a  con- 
ference with  Eunice  it  became  plain  to  Dora  that  de- 
parture was  the  wisest  plan.  Eunice,  meanwhile,  had 
become  furious  at  Kinnicutt.  She  attempted,  one  af- 
ternoon, to  arraign  him. 

She  might  as  well  have  attempted  to  arraign  an 
east  wind  or  an  epidemic  of  influenza.  Kinnicutt 
was  far  more  agreeable  than  either.  In  the  nice  preser- 
vation of  his  temper  he  bitterly  reminded  Eunice  of 
Legree,  but  there  the  similitude  distinctly  stopped. 

"  You  have  treated  us  horribly,"  Eunice  said.  "We 
feel  disgraced  in  this  hotel  because  of  your  action." 

"  My  dear  Eunice,"  he  returned,  "how  can  you  talk 
to  me  so  cruelly?  I've  tried  so  hard  to  make  every- 
thing comfortable  for  you  and  Dora."  Then  a  little 


WOMEN  MUST  WEEP        .  245 

sigh  escaped  him.  "  You  know  that  Dora  may  be 
very  dear  to  me,  but  that  you  are  almost  the  same. 
I  say  'almost,'  Eunice,  and  with  good  reason,  dear 
sister.  .  You'll  let  me  call  you  sister,  won't  you?" 

"No,"  replied  Eunice  austerely. 

"  Oh,  yes,  you  will.  Dora's  lovely,  of  course,  and 
I'm  tremendously  fond  of  her;  but  I  sometimes  think 
that  if  she  had  had  your  intellect,  Eunice,  (I  won't 
speak  of  your  figure  and  the  fetching  style  with  which 
you  carry  yourself)  I  might " 

"Now,  Harvey,  stop!"  broke  in  Eunice.  "Don't 
say  another  word  like  that.  If  you  do  I  shall  be 
furious." 

"  I  always  like  to  see  you  when  you're  angry,"  said 
Kinnicutt,  with  meekness. 

"  Oh,  you  do ! "  shot  out  Eunice,  not  half  so  nettled, 
somehow,  as  she  thought  she  ought  to  be.  "And  .  . 
and  why,  sir,  if  you  please?  " 

"  Why,  Eunice?  Because  it's  so  becoming.  You  do 
get  such  a  beautiful  color." 

If  there  was  anything  about  which  Eunice  had  a 
sensitive  self-distrust  it  was  her  florid  complexion. 
And  that  Harvey  should  admire  what  she  held  to  be 
a  weakness,  filled  her  with  sudden  unconquerable 
pleasure.  This  emotion,  however,  she  controlled. 

"You — you  are  a  fearful  humbug,"  she  said  scowl- 
ing with  all  her  might.  "  I  could  speak  worse  of  you 
than  that,  if  I  wanted,  but  I  won't." 

"  Yoii  couldn't  speak  worse  of  me,  Eunice.  Shall  I 
tell  you  why  ?  You  accuse  me  of  being  insincere  when 
I  tell  you  that  you  are  one  of  the  handsomest  women 
I've  ever  met." 

Ten  minutes  later,  when  their  interview  \vasbroken 
by  the  appearance  of  Dora,  Eunice  asked  herself 


246  WOMEN  MUST  WEEP 

whether  she  had  given  Kinnicutt  the  lecture  she  had 
intended  for  him,  and  if  not  why  not.  Her  mental 
answer,  ho wever  self-humiliating,  came  to  this :  he 
had  interested  her  in  the  question  of  just  how  far  down 
on  the  nape  of  her  neck  her  hair  grew,  and  of  how  she 
surpassed  most  women  in  the  charming  attitude  of 
having  hair  that  grew  neither  too  high  nor  too  low 
there,  but  with  a  few  little  tender  curls  as  well  that 
(according  to  the  gen  tie  avowal  of  her  brother-in-law) 
created  an  effect  thoroughly  delightful. 

"Oh,  there's  120  talking  with  him!"  Eunice  told 
Dora  a  little  later.  But  in  reality  she  had  talked  with 
him  a  good  deal,  and  more  agreeably  to  herself  than 
she  liked  to  think  about. 

In  another  day  or  two  they  quitted  the  hotel.  Dora 
felt  that  their  departure  was  the  beating  of  a  retreat, 
and  one  which  teemed  for  her  with  untold  mortifi- 
cations. 


XVIII 

In  early  September,  Annette  returned  from  Saratoga. 
Her  eyes  had  the  happiest  of  sparkles,  and  her  lips 
were  filled  only  with  good  tidings.  Gordon  had  been 
irreproachable  throughout  all  their  stay.  "  He  tells 
me,"  Annette  declared,"  that  he  means  never  to  go 
wrong  again.  And  I  believe  him — I  can't  help  it." 

"  You're  very  sensible  not  to  try  and  help  it,"  said 
Eunice.  "Faith  brings  comfort,  I  think,  and  you're 
right  to  cultivate  it." 

"  Eunice  says  that  as  if  she  hadn't  much  faith  her- 
self," said  Dora.  Then,  shaking  her  head:  "I'm  afraid 
1  haven't  either." 

Annette's  joyful  look  faded.  "Don't  discourage 
me,"  she  said.  And  then  the  tears  glittered  in  her 
dusky  eyes.  "Oh,  girls,  Gordon  has  been  so  lovely ! 
If  it  were  not  for  that  horror  I  wouldn't  change  for- 
tunes with  anybody  living.  .  He's  working  real  hard, 
too.  Often  he  had  to  stay  here  in  town  for  three  and 
four  days  at  a  time.  And  it's  been  such  a  trial  to  me, 
besides  the  dread,  you  know,  about  his  staying  here 
all  alone.  He's  writing  articles  on  the  coming  elec- 
tion. Both  he  and  his  father  are  so  interested  in  it! 


248  WOMEN  MUST  WEEP 


And  the  Monitor  has  gone  up  in  circulation ;  I  don't 
know  how  much,  but  public  feeling  is  with  it,  they 
say,  and  sales  are  greatly  increased." 

Annette  was  quite  right,  here.  The  Monitor  had 
attacked  fraud  with  fury  and  yet  with  coolness.  Once 
more  Simeon  Ammidown's  nanie  was  in  the  mouths 
of  men.  Never  really  successful,  either  as  a 
journalist  or  a  politician,  he  had  certain  admirers, 
notwithstanding,  and  among  these  Andrew  Heffer- 
nan  could  be  rated  as  the  most  heartily  sincere.  Hef- 
fernan  had  not  only  read  the  Monitor,  of  late;  he  had 
been  impressed  by  its  frank,  daring  and  reformatory 
spirit.  Once  he  saw  in  one  of  its  burning  editorials 
a  reference  to  himself  and  the  local  power  for  good 
or  ill  that  he  would  hold  in  the  near  elections.  His 
name  was  boldly  mentioned,  and  though  it  had  been 
either  lauded  or  reviled  in  newspapers  for  several  past 
years,  this  candid  attack  upon  it  filled  him  with 
mingled  admiration  and  regret.  He  could  not  help 
esteeming  the  clear-mindedness  of  the  essay,  while  he 
deplored  its  distinct  slurs  upon  his  own  probity. 
Word  had  come  to  him  that  Larry  McGonigle  still 
believed  in  his  "loyalty"  and  waited  with  lordly  re- 
serve for  some  proof  of  its  continuance. 

"I  am  in  the  fellow's  debt,"  Heffernan  said  to  his 
wife.  "He  did  things  for  me  in  those  other  days 
\vhen  I  wanted  things  done.  He's  a  man  without 
a  grain  of  real  goodness,  and  he  thinks  he's  got  a 
grip  on  me  that  I  can't  shake  off." 

"  Show  him  you  can  shake  it  off,  Andy,"  was  Mrs. 
Heffernaii's  reply.  "Young  Wentworth  believes  in 
you,  and  more  than  that,  you've  taken  the  money 
with  a  full  understanding  just  how  it's  to  be  used." 

"Yes." 


WOMEN  MUST  WEEP  249 

"Then  let  McGonigle  make  all  the  fuss  he  pleases. 
I  guess  he  can't  and  won't  make  much.  You  can  pay 
him  back,  if  you're  really  so  much  in  his  debt,  other- 
wise than  by  turning  traitor  to  Mr.  Wentworth." 

"  Right,  'Liza.  If  I  knifed  that  young  man,  or  if  I 
stood  by  and  let  him  be  knifed  after  what's  passed 
between  us,  I'd  want  to  cut  my  throat  the  next 
hour." 

"The  next  hour,  Andy!"  exclaimed  his  wife,  with  a 
sudden  flash  of  gladness  on  her  face.  "Ah,  howl  wish 
it  was  here!  You  know  what  I  mean!  When  this 
election  is  once  over  and  done  with  you'll  cut  politics 
and  the  liquor  trade  forever.  That  was  your  promise." 

"So  it  was,"  he  muttered,  "and  I  won't  go  back 
on  it." 

"  The  very  next  day,  Andy,  you'll  begin." 

"Yes." 

"  Oh,  how  I  wish  that  day  was  here!  Let  'em  wag 
their  tongues  all  they  want.  Who  cares?  I  was 
thinking  about  our  going  to  Europe  for  a  while.  Such 
lots  like  us  do  go  nowadays.  It  might  make  a  new 
man  of  you;  it  might  cure  that  trouble  in  your  head; 
they  say  the  voyage  often  works  wonders." 

"Well,  we'll  see,  'Liza;  we'll  see." 

"  Of  course,  we  wouldn't  stay  very  long,  you  know. 
I  should  hate  to  stay  long,  for  my  part,  now  that 
Eunice  is  worse  than  a  widow  and  poor  Annette's 
married  a  man  with  that  awful  curse  on  him.  I 
couldn't  stop  very  long  away  from  those  three  girls 
o'  mine,  God  bless  'em!" 

Hefiernan  looked  at  his  wife  with  a  slow,  lingering 
smile.  His  face  was  very  haggard,  now,  and  when 
he  smiled  like  that  it  gave  her  a  secret  chill,  as  if  a 
revealing  light  had  been  thrown  on  the  ravages  that 


WOMEN  MUST  WEEP 


her  love  told  her  were  those  of  a  subtle,  undermining 
malady. 

"YouVe  got  a  great,  big  heart,"  he  said.  "No- 
body knows  that  better  than  I  do." 

"  Oh,  pooh,"  said  Mrs.  Heffernan,  with  a  frown  and 
ahead-toss.  "  My  heart's  full  o'  spite  sometimes.  I 
often  feel  as  if  I  could  just  kill  that  Austin  Legree." 

"Who  blames  you  for  that,  'Liza?  I  guess  /don't." 

"Oh,  Andy,  aint  it  strange,  though!  Do  you  re- 
member how  I  once  said  to  you  that  there  were  three 
chief  reasons  why  us  women  are  so  often  unhappy  in 
our  married  lives?" 

Heffernan  shrugged  his  great  shoulders.  "  You  fire 
off  lots  o'  your  notions  at  me  all  the  time.  I 
shouldn't  wonder  but  I  did  recollect  some  sort  o' 
stuff  you  let  loose  about  married  women.  Wasn't 
the  first  reason  .  .  unfaithfulness?" 

"  Yes.  And  that's  come  to  poor  Dora.  You  know 
what  Eunice  told  me  the  other  day — how  Harvey 
Kinnicutt  carried  on  over  there  at  that  Jersey  hotel." 

"Yes." 

"Well,  that  looks  bad.  It  mayn't  be  so  very,  but 
I'm  doubtful  .  .  .  And  then  my  second  reason,  Andy- 
drunkenness.  Look  at  poor  Annette." 

"True  enough." 

"And  then  my  third  reason." 

"What  was  it,  'Liza?    I  forget." 

"  Oh,  general  deviltry.  A  man  being  a  reg'lar  high- 
toned  gentleman  outside  of  his  own  home  and  a 
perfect  imp  o'  darkness  inside.  Wasn't  that  Austin 
Legree,  all  over?" 

Heffernan  laughed.  "You  appear  to  have  struck 
it  dead  right,"  he  said,  adding  with  a 'sudden  sigh, 
"  More's  the  pity !" 


WOMEN  MUST  WEEP  251 

"But  I  have  got  hopes  of  Harvey!"  his  wife  ex- 
claimed. "I  wouldn't  trust  the  word  of  any  man 
with  that  vile  thirst  in  him  as  it's  in  Gordon  Ammi- 
down,  not  if  he  was  to  stay  a  week  on  his  knees  and 
swear  by  fifty  Bibles  that  he'd  never  touch  another 
drop.  But  with  Harvey  Kinnicutt  it's  different.  He 
can  control  himself  if  he's  a  mind  to,  and  somehow 
I  think  he  don't  mean  to  go  on  and  set. Dora  crazy 
with  more  o'  those  capers.  He's  got  such  a  good, 
kind  face,  too.  You  needn't  but  look  at  him  to  see 
there's  no  real  harm  in  him." 

"  Humph !  "  grumbled  Heffernan.  "  '  Such  a  good, 
kind  face '  and  '  no  real  harm  in  him '  .  .  .  I  guess  that 
about  sizes  him  up  for  most  o'  the  pretty  -women  he 
runs  after." 

"Oh,  mercy,  Andrew!  I  hope  you  don't  take  him 
to  be  a  ..  a  professional  rake !  " 

"I'm  afraid  he  ain't  much  better,  'Liza." 

"My!  But  I  won't  believe  it  of  him  yet.  I'm 
going  to  give  him  another  chance.  And  Eunice  says 
that  Dora  feels  that  way,  too." 

But  Dora  did  not  feel  that  way  very  many  days 
longer.  It  happened  one  afternoon,  that  she  and 
Eunice  were  shopping  on  Sixth  avenue.  They  had 
been  to  several  places  and  failed  to  procure  just  what 
they  wished.  Then  Dora  began  to  fret  a  little  about 
Baby,  and  at  the  same  time  said  that  it  would  be 
foolish  for  them  to  go  home  to  luncheon  until  they 
had  matched  that  tantalizing  blue  ribbon  and  got 
another  yard  of  the  fringe  that  had  given  out  in 
the  making  of  the  new  mantel  cover. 

"Let's  lunch  over  there,"  Dora  presently  said, 
giving  a  nod  of  her  head  toward  an  oyster-saloon  on 
the  opposite  side  of  the  avenue,  with  spacious  plate- 


252  WOMEN  MUST  WEEP 

glass  windows  and  striped  awnings  and  other  luxu- 
rious touches. 

"Oh,  Dora,"  said  Eunice,  with  the  instant  sense  of 
extreme  imprudence.  ' '  Shall  we  ?  " 

"  Yes— if  you  think  Baby  '11  keep  till  I  get  home." 

"Nonsense,  as  far  as  that's  concerned.  Isn't 
Catharine  with  her,  and  always  perfectly  devoted?  " 

"Well,  then;  /et's." 

"But  isn't  it  sort  of .  .  fast,  Dora?  "  said  Eunice,  as 
they  began  to  cross  the  street  together. 

"Fast?  Two  married  women  going  into  an 
oyster-saloon  for  a  couple  of  stews  and  some  beer." 

' '  Beer !    Oh ,  that  will  be  fast . ' ' 

"  Do  you  think  so  ?    Not  a  bit  of  it." 

And  after  they  were  seated  in  the  restaurant,  Dora 
ordered  beer  to  accompany  the  oysters. 

" Isn't  it  ever  so  fine  here?  "  whispered  Eunice. 

*«Elegant,  isn't  it,  though?"  returned  Dora.  The 
tables  were  of  costly  polished  wood,  the  floor  was 
marbled,  the  wall-paperings  looked  as  though  their 
golden  fern-leaves  might  be  wrought  of  stamped 
leather.  Having  been  shown  into  the  back  of  the 
large  interior,  it  was  some  little  while  before  the  gas- 
lit  dimness  there  permitted  the  sisters  to  notice  that 
other  people  were  scattered  round  among  the  neigh- 
boring tables. 

Suddenly  Dora's  face  grew  very  white.  Noticing 
the  change,  Eunice  said  \vith  swift  anxiety :  "  What 
is  it  ?  Aren't  you  well  ?  " 

Dora's  eyes  alone  spoke,  now,  and  their  observer 
followed  them.  Not  far  away  two  figures  were 
seated ;  their  position  was  the  most  retired  in  the 
saloon.  They  were  a  man  and  a  woman,  the  latter 
being  dressed  \vith  a  somewhat  dashing  showiness. 


WOMEN  MUST  WEEP  253 

Her  face  was  in  full  relief;  you  could  see  how  long 
her  eye-lashes  were,  and  the  infantile  effect  of  her  soft 
\vhite  throat.  The  profile  of  the  man  was  alone 
visible.  But  Eunice  instantly  recognized  it  as  that  of 
Kinnicutt. 

She  stared  at  it,  fascinated.  He  was  smiling,  and 
presently  he  laughed,  throwing  back  his  head.  His 
companion  laughed,  too,  and  then  they  gazed  across 
their  table,  with  a  merry  and  ardent  intimacy,  into 
one  another's  eyes.  Eunice  now  turned  and  looked 
at  Dora. 

"  What .  .  what  shall  we  do  ?  "  came  Dora's  gasped 
question. 

Before  any  answer  could  be  framed,  the  waiter  ap- 
peared with  their  refreshments.  He  placed  these 
before  them,  and  at  length  withdrew.  Meanwhile 
not  a  word  had  been  spoken.  As  the  waiter  retired, 
Eunice  said : 

''Act  as  if  you  didn't  see  him,  Dora." 

' '  I— I  feel  rather  faint,  Eunice.    I ' ' 

"  Force  yourself  to  keep  up." 

"I'll  try." 

"And  don't  look  there.  I  won't,  Dora,  and  don't 
you.  It's  far  the  best  way." 

"  Very  well,"  Dora  faltered. 

"Now  try  to  eat  something." 

"  I— I  can't.    I— I  should  choke  if  I  did." 

"  Then  make  believe  to.    I  will." 

After  a  little  silence  Dora  said  faintly:  "  Can't  we 
get  up  and  go  out  soon  ?  " 

"  Soon — yes.    But  not  just  yet." 

As  these  words  were  spoken,  the  strident  sound  of 
two  pushed-back  chairs  made  both  sisters  give  an 
involuntary  glance  toward  Kinnicutt  and  his  com- 


254  WOMENMUST  WEEP 

panion.  Both  had  risen.  He  was  putting  on  for 
her,  with  an  air  of  what  struck  them  as  hideous 
gallantry,  a  wrap  of  some  sort  that  she  had  thrown 
aside  during  her  repast.  Standing  behind  her,  he 
leaned  and  said  [something,  with  great  apparent 
fondness  and  mirth,  in  one  of  her  ears.  She  broke 
into  a  trill  of  laughter.  Then  they  came  forward 
together,  leaving  the  saloon.  Kinnicutt  passed  them 
so  closely  that  they  could  almost  have  stretched  out 
their  hands  and  touched  the  skirts  of  his  coat.  But 
still  he  did  not  see  them.  They  heard  him  say,  how- 
ever, in  a  tone  of  airy  gayety : 

"  Don't  you  \vant  to  go  with  me  to  a  matinee  some 
afternoon,  when  the  coast  is  clear  for  both  of  us  ?  " 

"It  ain't  ever  clear  for  me,"  she  laughed.  "It's 
always  foggy." 

"Oh,  well,  I'll  take  the  risk  of  collision,  if  you 
will."  .  .  And  then  their  voices  died  away. 

As  sometimes  happens,  in  cases  like  these,  fate 
aggravated  the  blow  it  dealt.  Eunice  had  not  even 
glanced  at  Dora  during  the  past  few  moments,  but 
now,  hearing  a  heavy  sigh,  she  looked  across  the 
table. 

"Oh,  it  was  too  much!"  breathed  Dora.  "I— I 
wish,  now,  I'd  spoken." 

"Much  better  that  you  didn't — much,"  protested 
Eunice.  "I  can  see  them,"  she  went  on,  staring  across 
her  sister's  shoulder.  "  They've  nearly  got  into  the 
street."  She  touched  a  little  hand-bell.  "Let's  pay 
and  then  go.  Drink  your  beer,  Dora— drink  it.  It'll 
brace  you  up  wonderfully.  See — mine's  done  me  lots 
of  good.  Perhaps  it  may  allow  you  to  take  some  of 
the  oysters,  and " 

"No,"  said  Dora,  beginning  to  sip  her  beer.  "I 
just  couldn't,  you  know,  and  that's  all  about  it." 


WOMEN  MUST  WEEP  255 

"  Well,  neither  can  I,"  said  Eunice.  "  And  isn't  my 
face  a  perfect  show  ?"  she  pursued. 

"  It's  a  little  flushed,"  admitted  Dora. 

"  A  littlel  .  .  Here's  our  waiter.  Never  mind  if  he 
appears  surprised  that  we  haven't  eaten.  The  point 
is  to  get  away  at  once,  now." 

They  were  out  in  the  avenue,  presently,  and  Eunice 
had  drawn  her  sister's  arm  within  her  own.  Then 
she  hailed  a  car,  and  they  entered  it.  Scarcely  a  word 
passed  between  them  until  they  had  reached  home. 
At  last,  as  Dora  sank  into  a  chair  beside  the  crib  in 
which  her  child  lay  asleep,  she  murmured: 

"  There's  a  pair  of  us  now,  Eunice.  And  it's  come 
in  so  short  a  time.  Only  think  !  " 

"  What  do  you  mean ?"  Eunice  asked.  "Not  that 
you'll  .  .  .  ?" 

"Leave  him?  Yes,  I  do  mean  that,  "said  Dora;  and 
her  pallor,  her  shining  eyes,  and  the  resolute  lines 
about  her  lips  made  her  look  thoroughly  as  if  she 
meant  it. 


XIX 

That  afternoon  Kinnicutt  came  up  stairs  with  a 
jocund  whistle  on  his  lips,  Eunice  met  him  in  the 
little  front  parlor.  "  Hasn't  this  been  a  lovely  Fall 
day?"  he  said  blithely.  "  Who'd  think  it  was  so  near 
November?" 

Eunice  made  him  no  answer.  Her  back  was  turned 
to  him,  and  she  had  bent  over  a  table  and  appeared 
to  be  lightly  dusting  with  her  handkerchief  the  spaces 
between  its  ornaments. 

"I  suppose  you  and  Dora  went  out  to-day " 

Kinnicutt  again  began. 

And  now  Eunice  turned.  There  were  tears  in  her 
eyes.  "  Yes,  Harvey,  we  did  go  out."  Then  she  said 
more,  and  as  she  ended  the  three  or  four  quick  sen- 
tences that  followed,  she  saw  him  whiten  to  the  lips. 

"I  don't  know  that  it's  such  a  crime  to  go  into  an 
oyster-saloon  in  the  middle  of  the  day,"  hesaid,  "with 
a  lady  friend  that  you  .  .  you  happen  to  meet." 

Eunice  was  her  real  self  in  a  trice  then.  "  Harvey 
Kinnicutt,"  she  began,  "what  has  your  record  been 
already?  A  lady  friend,  indeed!  And  a  lady,  for  that 
matter,  you'd  happened  to  meet !  .  .  It's  all  come  to 
this,  Harvey:  Dora  is  worn  out.  She  says  so,  and  I 


WOMEN  MUST  WEEP  257 

know  she  means  it,  I've  done  the  best  I  can.  I've 
talked  with  her,  I've  argued  with  her,  But " 

"Oh,  you  want  to  scold,  Eunice,"  said  Kinnicutt, 
who  had  got  some  of  his  color  back,  and  not  a  little 
of  his  easy,  amiable  self-poise  as  well.  "You  area. 
dreadful  scold,  with  all  your  nice  points,  and  I  don't 
know  any  woman  who's  got  more." 

"  No,  no,"  shot  Eunice,  shaking  her  head.  "  That 
won't  do  this  time,  Harvey.  I've  never  seen  Dora  so 
angry  and  yet  so  sad." 

Kinnicutt  slipped  up  to  Eunice  and  tried  to  take  her 
hand.  She  would  not  let  him  do  so,  but  his  comely 
face  was  now  so  amiable  and  winning  that  she  did 
not  recede  from  him  as  she  had  intended. 

"Do  be  nice  and  help  me,  Eunice !  "  he  pleaded. 

"  I  can't  help  you.    I  can't  do  a  thing." 

"Yes,  you  can — yes,  you  can!  Dear,  sweet,  beauti- 
ful Eunice! " 

"Harvey  Kinnicutt!  I'm  not  beautiful,  and  you 
ought  to  be  ashamed  (if  you  had  any  shame)  to  rank 
me  with  the  women  you  talk  to  in  that  style ! " 

"Eunice,  Eunice,  please  listen!  That  young  girl 
is  as  respectable,  pure,  and  well-brought-up  as  any- 
body we  know.  I  just  met  her  as  .  .  as  I  was  going 
in  there  to  take  lunch.  She  .  .  why,  Eunice,  she  was 
going  there  to  have  an  oyster  as  well.  What  was 
more  natural  (as  you  might  tell  Dora— that  is,  if  you 
cared  for  me  \vith  as  much  real  devotion  and  .  .  and 
admiration,  Eunice,  as  I  care  for  you ! )  than  that  I 
should  merely  sit  at  the  same  table  with  an  acquaint- 
ance like  her— just  an  ordinary  acquaintance,  Eunice? 
.  .  Why,  good  Heaven's!  I  hadn't  seen  the  girl  for 
three  months  before  that,  and  I '11  pledge  you  my  word 
that  I  never  dreamed  of  seeing  her  again  after  we 
walked  out  of  the  saloon  together." 


258  WOMEN  MUST  WEEP 

This  last  avowal  was  very  earnestly  made,  and 
Eunice,  knowing  what  she  knew,  recoiled  before  her 
own  swift  realization  of  the  falsehood  it  ensheathed. 
She  was  on  the  verge  of  speaking  her  denial,  her 
proof-laden  conviction,  \vhen  another  voice  spoke  it 
for  her. 

This  voice  was  Dora's.  A  good  deal  of  what  had 
just  passed  between  her  husband  and  his  sister-in-law 
Dora  had  already  quietly  stood  and  heard.  Now  she 
took  the  words,  as  it  were,  from  Eunice's  mouth. 

"  You  swear  that  you  never  dreamed  of  seeing  that 
woman  again,"  said  Dora,  "and  yet  we  both  heard  you 
beg  her  to  be  with  you  again  some  afternoon,  when 
.  .  when  the  coast— was— clear !  That's  what  your 
word— your  oath— is  worth !  Eunice  was  quite  right— 
I'm  worn  out,  and  I'm  both  very  angry  and  very  sad. 
Now,  for  once  and  all,  it's  ended  between  us,  Harvey 
Kinnicutt.  I've  my  own  money  to  live  on— at  least 
enough  of  it  for  me  never  to  take  another  cent  from 
you,  thank  God,  while  I  live !  " 

'She  put  her  hand  to  her  throat  and  reeled  a  little  as 
she  veered  round  again  so  as  to  face  the  door  by 
which  she  had  entered.  Eunice  sprang  toward  her, 
and  at  the  same  moment  Kinnicutt  called  out  in  his 
most  plaintive  yet  dulcet  tones : 

"Dora!  Dora!  You're  doing  me  the  most  awful 
wrong!" 

Dora  paused  and  with  one  hand  clutching  that  of 
Eunice  she  spoke  over  her  shoulder. 

"  You  know  that's  false.  I've  borne  from  you  more 
than  any  decent  wife  should  bear.  As  to  forgiving 
you,  there  wouldn't  be  the  faintest  use.  It  means  to 
you,  this  being  forgiven,  merely  the  liberty  of  doing 
some  new  horrid  thing  when  the  first  chance  serves, 


WOMEN  MUST  WEEP  259 

.  . .  Eunice  has  her  cross  to  carry ;  now  I  have  mine. 
Misery  loves  company,  and  we'll  carry  them  to- 
gether." A  flash  of  the  old  jocular  Dora  was  in  this 
last  sentence,  though  its  accents  were  trenchant  with 
irony.  .  Immediately  after  speaking  she  passed  with 
Eunice  from  the  room. 

Kinnicutt  was  greatly  distressed,  and  had  never 
felt  quite  so  remorseful.  Still,  he  had  every  hope  of 
softening  his  wife  once  again.  He  let  a  number  of 
hours  elapse  before  making  this  appeal,  and  then  dis- 
covered that  Dora  had  steeled  herself  against  him 
with  a  dreadful  sternness.  Hardly  would  she  even 
consent  to  listen  to  his  new  protestations  and  vows, 
hurrj-ing  away  from  him  \vhile  they  were  being  ut- 
tered, as  though  contagious  bane  overhung  them. 
Many  husbands,  \vhether  guilty  or  no,  would  have 
used  wrath,  at  this  point,  either  as  a  relief  or  refuge. 
But  Kinnicutt  was  no  more  wrathful  than  if  he  had 
been  some  injured  saint.  Indeed,  there  soon  came  a 
look  of  patient  sorrow  into  his  face  that  might 
almost  have  acquitted  him  before  a  jury. 

Several  more  hours  after  his  wife's  final  rebuff  he 
made  an  appeal  to  Eunice.  "It  can't  be  possible," 
he  said,  "  that  she's  going  to — to  turn  me  out?  " 

"No,"  said  Eunice.  "She's  going  to  leave  you 
here." 

"  Leave  me  here?  " 

"Yes.  We're  going  with  Catharine  back  to  the 
West  Eleventh  street  house." 

"  The — the  devil  you  are! "  wailed  Kinnicutt  bleakly. 

"  Uncle  Andrew  and  Dora  have  had  a  talk  to-day. 
She  -would  ^Q  at  once  and  find  him,  and  she  succeeded. 
The  people  in  the  West  Eleventh  street  house  are  dis- 
satisfied about  something,  and  want  to  quit.  Uncle 


260  WOMEN  MUST  WEEP 

Andrew  believes  in  letting  'em;  he  says  there'll  be 
plenty  a  year  for  Dora  and  me  to  live  on  if  we  go 
right  back  to  the  old  house.  She's  crazy  to  get  there; 
she  behaves  as  if  she  didn't  want  to  lose  a  minute." 

"Eunice,"  cried  Kinnicutt,  "can't you  do  am^thing 
with  her?  Can  t  you,  Eunice?  "  And  he  seized  her 
arm  and  peered  into  her  face  with  his  blue  eyes  full  of 
supplication. 

Eunice  tried  to  frown  very  darkly.  "I've  done 
everj^thing  I  could,"  she  said,  "  and  a  hundred  times 
more  than  you  deserve.  But  I  can't  budge  Dora;  she's 
like  a  rock  this  time.  I  did  fresher  to  overlook  your 
behavior  this  once,  scandalous  though  it's  been,  for, 
after  all,  I  pitied  you." 

"Yes,  you've  got  a  heart,  Eunice;  she  hasn't  any. 
I  wish  I'd  married  you!1' 

"Don't  misunderstand  me,  sir!  I  pitied  you  because 
of  the  wretched  figure  you'll  cut  before  all  your 
friends.  A  husband  whose  wife  runs  away  from  him 
because  he  insults  her  to  her  face  with  nearly  every 
woman  he  meets!  That's  what  they'll  say.  And 
your  conscience  can't  deny  it— for  you  must  have 
some  conscience  left! " 

"My  conscience  doesn't  deny  it!"  said  Kinnicutt, 
beginning  to  weep.  "  Oh,  Eunice,  you're  so  eloquent; 
you've  got  such  a  flow  of  language!  You  hit  the 
nail  right  on  the  head  every  time."  And  then,  while 
wiping  his  eyes  and  sobbing  (he  did  not  by  any  means 
become  as  ogreishly  ugly  as  do  most  men  when  they 
cry),  with  a  queer,  tragical  slyness  he  \vent  on:  "  Oh, 
if  you  could  only  affect  her  as  you  do  me!  I — I  think 
you  might  put  forth  your  mag — magnificent  powers 
just  once  again! " 
«  And  Eunice  did  make  another  trial,  though  it  proved 


WOMEN  MUST  WEEP  261 

a  futile  one.  Dora  was  determined  to  go  to  West 
Eleventh  street  with  her  baby  and  her  sister.  Harvey, 
she  declared,  could  stay  in  the  flat  just  as  it  stood, 
until  the  next  rent  was  due;  she  didn't  even  care  if 
he  sold  the  furniture  afterward.  Except  her  father's 
portrait  (which  Eunice  had  brought  thither  when 
she  had  moved  across  the  hall)  and  a  few  other  relics 
more  or  less  dear,  she  would  be  glad  to  escape  all 
material  reminders  of  her  married  life.  For  the  next 
few  days  she  refused  to  see  him'except  when  necessity 
constrained,  and  then  she  would  pass  him  with  a 
stony  face.  Meanwhile  preparations  for  departure 
were  being  strenuously  pushed,  and  one  afternoon  a 
little  party  took  their  exit  from  the  apartment-house. 
Not  expecting  that  they  would  go.  so  soon  as  this, 
Kinnicutt  returned  to  find  an  empty  hearthstone 
indeed.  Almost  at  once  he  bethought  himself  of 
Annette,  went  to  her  and  succeeded  in  touching  her 
heart. 

Annette,  however,  would  have  taken  precisely  the 
course  that  she  did  take,  whether  her  heart  had  been 
touched  or  no.  On  the  morning  after  Dora's  and 
Eunice's  arrival  at  the  West  Eleventh  street  house, 
she  presented  herself  there,  and  met  them  both  with 
tears.  But  the  tears  were  not  because  of  Dora's 
trouble  with  Harvey.  Her  first  words  made  that 
thoroughly  clear. 

"Oh,  girls,"  she  cried,  "doesn't  every  inch  of  the 
house  remind  you  of  those  dear  old  days?  I  declare, 
I  almost  saw  pa,  as  I  entered  this  parlor!" 

"Yes,"  said  Eunice,  "it  all  seems  very  natural, 
doesn't  it?" 

Annette  looked  hard  at  Dora.  "  There's  one  thing 
that  doesn't  seem  natural  at  all." 


262  WOMEN  MUST  WEEP 

"What?"  asked  Dora. 

"Your  coming  here  without  Harvey,"  answered 
Annette.  "Oh,  it's  too  awful!  PMrst  Eunice,  and 
now  you !  Both  separated,  an 
What  will  people  think  of  us?" 

"I  shouldn't  have  thought  much  of  myself,"  said 
Dora,  "if  I'd  done  a  bit  differently." 

"  Oh,  Dora,  Dora! "  said  Annette,  shaking  her  head. 
"  I  didn't  think  you  had  it  in  you  to  be  so  cruel !  " 

Dora's  eyes  flashed.  "Cruel!  I  don't  doubt  he's 
been  to  visit  you  and  told  you  all  sorts  of  false  and 
silly  things.  He's 'the  hollowest  of  humbugs,  An- 
nette. Yes,  I  see  by  your  face  that  he  has  been  talk- 
ing \vith  you." 

"He  doesn't  excuse  himself,"  said  Annette;  "he 
doesn't  attempt  to." 

"  As  if  he  could !  "  mocked  Dora. 

"Well,"  said  Eunice,  "at  least  give  him  credit  for 
one  fault  the  less." 

"He  loves  you,  Dora,  he  loves  you!"  exclaimed 
Annette.  "  And  that  means  so  much !  " 

"Suppose,"  appealed  Dora,  "your  Gordon  was  to 
treat  you  as  Harvey's  treated  me.  What  would  you 
do?" 

"Stick  to  him,"  declared  Annette,  "if  I  thought  he 
loved  me  behind  it  all,  and  if  I  loved  him !  " 

"You  wouldn't  feel  yourself  grossly  insulted?" 
Dora  went  on. 

"I  might ;  but  I'd  stick  to  my  husband !  " 

"I  believe  Annette  would.11  said  Eunice,  with  ju- 
dicial gravity. 

Annette's  cheeks  grew  pink  and  her  eyes  brightened. 
"Why,  if  Gordon  should  begin  to  drink  again  (not 
that  I  dream  he  ever  will,  for  I'm  now  perfectly  con- 


\VOMEN  MUST  WEEP  263 


vinced  that  he  means  to  crush  down  all  those  crav- 
ings for  the  rest  of  his  lifetime) — but  if  he  should 
drink,  and  behave  disgracefully,  and  fling  shame  on 
me  and  his  own  family,  I  wouldn't  leave  him  because 
of  that!  I  wouldn't  leave  him,  no!"  Annette  re- 
peated, and  she  looked  with  excited  challenge  at  either 
of  her  sisters. 

"  Perhaps  you'd  leave  him  if  he  struck  you  as  Aus- 
tin Legree  struck  me,"  said  Eunice  grimly,  and  with 
what  seemed  gathering  ire. 

"No,  I  would  not!"  affirmed  Annette. 

"Oh,  you  wouldn't?" 

"No!"  Annette  iterated.  "Now,  Eunice,  I've 
never  told  you  this  before,  and  I  think  Austin  treated 
you  frightfully.  But  I  wouldn't  have  left  him  as  you 
did." 

"Neither  would  I,"  said  Dora. 

Eunice  gave  a  little  cry  (it  was  a  sort  of  "  Et  tu, 
Brute1'  cry)  and  shotmild  daggers  at  the  last  speaker. 

Annette,  equally  dismayed,  confronted  Dora."  Why, 
what  do  you  mean  by  such  a  statement?"  she  de- 
manded. 

"I  mean,"  said  Dora,  "that  to  behave  as  Harvey 
has  done  is  ten  times  worse  than  any  other  kind  of 
conduct.  Oh,  yes,"  she  went  on  hysterically,  "I 
could  forgive  a  blow — I  could  forgive  being  thrown 
clown  and  stamped  on— far  easier  than  such  cold- 
blooded deviltry  as  I've  had  to  bear  from  my  hus- 
band! " 

And  then  a  quarrel  began,  with  each  one  of  the 
sisters  talking  at  the  same  time ;  with  Eunice  loftily 
preaching  and  scolding,  just  as  she  had  done  in  their 
maiden  days;  with  Dora  tearful  and  passionately 
self-defensive;  with  Annette  placating  and  concilia- 


264  WOMEX  MUST  WEEP 

toryas  she  had  always  become  during  such  tripartite 
dissensions — and  with  not  a  shadow  of  real  ill-feeling 
in  the  end,  but  merely  a  surface-deep  indignation  and 
reproach. 

Dora  had  made  her  resolve,  however,  and  she  per- 
sisted in  saying  that  she  had  made  it  without  repeal. 
Not  long  afterward,  Heffernan,  during  a  little  chat 
with  his  wife,  gave  that  resolve  his  full  approval. 

"She's  right,"  he  said.  "A  chap  like  Kinnicutt 
ain't  fit  to  be  the  husband  of  any  good  woman.  I 
know  his  kind — I've  known  it  from  'way  back.  He's 
better  bounced  than  he  is  housed.  I'll  help  her  to  a 
divorce  if  she  wants." 

"  Oh,  I  guess  she  don't  want  that,"  said  his  wife. 

"  There's  grounds,  ain't  there?  " 

"I  s'pose  so.  But  she  don't  feel  that  wa}r.  She'll 
feel  more  like  taking  him  back,  some  da}r,  I  shouldn't 
wonder." 

"More  fool  she  if  she  does.  He'll  kiss  thenext  girl  he 
fancies,  with  the  oath  not  to  still  warm  on  his  lips." 

"I  know,  Andy,  but  there's  in  him,  after  all,  \vhat 
makes  nine  women  out  o'ten  knock  under  in  the  end." 

"What's  that?" 

"  He's  good-natured ;  he's  got  a  sweet  tongue.  Oh, 
if  some  of  the  men  that  play  pranks  with  women 
only  knew  how  much  there  is  in  doing  it  \vith  a 
smile  and  a  kind  word !  Lots  o'  wives  will  swallow 
'most  any  sort  of  a  pill  if  it's  sugared  for  'em  thick 
enough." 

"  Dora  don't  appear  to  be  cut  out  that  way." 

"Well,  you  wait  and  see.  It's  bad  language,  con- 
tempt, finger-snappings  in  our  faces,  that  freeze  us 
•women  hard.  The  men  don't  know  just  how  many 
infernal  things  they  can  do  to  us  if  they'll  do  'em 


WOMEN  MUST  WEEP  265 

pleasantly  ...  So  it's  all  settled  about  the  election?  " 

Heffernan  gave  a  slight  start  at  this  last  question, 
and  then  effected  one  of  his  sombre  nods. 

"  Yes.  Only  Mr.  Simeon  Ammidown  don't  seem  to 
think  so."  He  drew  from  his  pocket  a  letter  which 
his  \vife  had  already  seen,  and  solemnly  re-perused  it. 

"  He's  coming  here  to-night,"  said  Mrs.  Heffernan, 
"  and  I'm  glad  he  is.  He's  an  honest  gentleman,  and 
he  wants  to  make  sure  the  stories  about  you  are 
false." 

Heffernan  smiled  with  sarcasm.  "  I  guess  he  wants 
to  threaten  me.  Well,  he'll  get  no  good  by  it  if  he 
comes  like  that." 

"Mark  my  words,  Andy,  he  don't  come  like  that. 
His  son,  Gordon,  has  told  him  you  ain't  to  be 
bought  this  time." 

"This  time — no,"  murmured  Heffernan, with  a  hint 
of  sardonic  self-retrospect. 

"I'm  going  to  that  charity  fair  I  told  you  of,"  said 
his  wife.  "So  you'll  just  have  things  hereto  your- 
selves. I'll  see  there's  a  decanter  or  two  on  a  side- 
table,  and  some  crackers-and-cheese." 

"Oh,  stuff,"  was  the  reply.  "Simeon  Ammidown 
ain't  going  to  drink  my  liquor  nor  munch  my 
crackers-and-cheese,  you  bet,  'Liza.  He's  come  in  a 
good  deal  different  spirit  from  that." 

But  here  Heffernan  proved  to  be  wrong.  Ammi- 
down had  his  clear  suspicions  of  double-dealing  on 
the  political  part  of  this  person,  yet  he  wore  no  sign 
of  arrogance  as  he  entered  the  little  Second  avenue 
parlor  a  few  hours  later.  Still,  he  offered  no  hand, 
and  received  no  such  offer  from  his  entertainer. 

Gordon  had  said  to  him,  not  long  ago,  when  it  had 
been  a  question  between  father  and  son  as  to  what 


266  WOMEN  MUST  WEEP 

course  the  Monitor  should  take  in  treating  the 
chances  of  young  Wentworth's  possible  defeat  at  the 
^polls  through  fraud — "I'm  certain  that  if  you'd  once 
met  and  talked  with  Andrew  Heffernan,  sir,  you'd 
feel  convinced  as  to  the  falsity  of  these  rumors." 

"You've  met  the  fellow,  then?"  Simeon  Ammi- 
down  had  said,  surprised.  And  the  next  minute  he 
recalled  the  relationship  between  the  liquor-seller  and 
Annette,  thereby  relieving  Gordon  from  certain  em- 
barrassed thrills.  "Oh,  yes,  I  remember  ..  Well,  I 
should  like  to  judge  for  myself." 

And  to-night  he  had  come  for  that  purpose.  The 
contrast  between  the  two  men,  as  they  sat  side  by 
side,  was  very  striking.  In  the  presence  of  Ammi- 
down  you  saw  real  nobility,  an  air  of  distinct  culture, 
and  a  few  facial  signs,  perhaps,  of  that  extreme 
sensitiveness  \vhich  had  been  for  him  as  a  wlietstone 
on  which  were  sharpened  the  disappointments  of  his 
career.  Heffernan,  on  the  other  hand,  showed  noth- 
ing of  the  recent  moral  change  in  him,  except  through 
a  more  melancholy  mien.  His  roughness,  bigness, 
uncouthness,  looked  all  the  cruder  beside  his  com- 
.panion's  polish,  symmetry  and  grace. 

He  offered  refreshment  before  Ammidown  had  been 
five  minutes  in  the  room,  and  the  latter  accepted, 
drinking  the  potion  that  he  chose  with  delicate  and 
infrequent  sips.'  A  cigar  he  refused,  though  Heffer- 
nan had  been  in  hopes  that  he  would  have  cared  to 
smoke  one  from  a  box  full  of  very  choice  Havanas 
placed  near  at  hand.  The  liquor-seller  himself  smoked 
continuously,  but  he  used  a  cigar  that  was  rank  and 
almost  black — a  brand  always  to  be  found  in  his 
waistcoat-pocket,  and  beside  whose  coarse  flavors 
all  daintier  ones  were  tame  indeed. 


WOMEN  MUST  WEEP  267 

Converse  took  at  first  a  somewhat  wandering 
form.  Ammidown  was  polite,  yet  reserved  as  if 
with  the  sense  of  concealing  a  few  stings.  He  did 
not  really  mention  those  past  politics  in  which  the 
present  alderman  of  his  ward — the  man  seated  be- 
fore him,  puffing  at  a  black  cigar  and  looking  strangely 
hollow-cheeked  and  pale— had  played  no  reputable 
part;  but  he  referred  to  those  past  politics  in  a  way 
that  left  his  meaning  wholly  plain. 

Heffernan  had  received  no  signal,  as  yet,  for  out- 
spoken dissent.  But  if  he  had  once  been  thus  squarely 
met,  it  is  quite  likely  that  he  would  have  refrained 
from  a  hostile  hint  in  reply.  His  words,  for  a  good 
while,  were  the  merest  monosyllables;  and  at  last, 
when  Ammidown  brought  up  the  living  situation  by 
a  few  bold  sentences,  he  straightened  himself  in  his 
chair  and  listened  with  the  manner  of  a  man  who 
might  shoot  darts  from  a  hidden  quiver  if  the  mood 
should  so  urge. 

"Now,"  said  Ammidown,  quietly  proceeding,  "I 
have  to  ask  you  a  little  question,  Mr.  Heffernan, 
which  you  may  not  care  to  answer." 

Heffernan  gave  a  long,  serious  nod,  and  returned: 
"What's  the  question,  sir,  if  you  please?" 

"It's  this,"  said  Ammidown,  with  his  voice  hard 
though  courteous.  "Shall  you  care  to  place  it  in  my 
power  to  print  your  disapproval  of  reports  now 
current  concerning  you?" 

Heffernan  answered,  at  first  by  a  direct  glance  from 
his  black,  dull,  smoldering  eyes.  Then,  in  undertone, 
he  answered.  "You  mean  in  the  Monitor,  of  course?" 

"  Of  course.    Where  else  could  I  print  anything?" 

"  M— Yes.  I  thought  you  wrote  for  other  .  .  publi- 
cations. I  mean  magazines,  reviews  (do  you  call  'em 
reviews?)  and  things  like  that." 


268  WOMEN  MUST  WEEP 

"I  did.  But  lately  I've  refused  to  do  all  such 
work."  As  he  spoke,  Ammidown  drew  himself  up 
•with  what  was  unconscious  hauteur.  "  I  didn't  care 
to  have  my  opinions  bundled  in  with  those  of  every 
madman  that  chooses  to  stalk  around  the  land,  wav- 
ing a  cigar-spark  as  if  it  were  a  blazing  torch." 

"Ah,"  said  Heffernan,  reflectively,  and  with  one  of 
his  lean-lipped  smiles,  "you're  thin-skinned,  then. 
I've  heard  you  were." 

Ammidown  frowned  for  an  instant,  and  then  slight- 
ly tossed  his  head.  "  Oh,  I've  my  nerves,  if  you 
please.  I  suppose  most  of  us  scribblers  have." 

Heffernan  gave  another  nod.  "Put  me  in  your 
paper,  if  you  please,  sir,"  he  said,  very  deliberately 
and  with  a  look  of  blank  musing  in  his  eyes,  "as 
dead  against  knifing  Mr.  Went  worth  .  .  .  That's 
what  you  mean,  aint  it?" 

The  last  sentence  was  delivered  in  a  much  louder 
and  more  positive  voice  than  the  first.  Ammidown 
started,  and  a  pleased  look  crossed  his  face. 

"Say  you  know  I'd  scorn  to  doit,"  Heffernan  went 
on,  "or  to  let  others  do  it  if  I  could  prevent.  Don't 
quote  my  words — don't  'interview'  me,  you  know. 
The  day  after  to-morrow's  election  day.  You  can 
prophesy,  so  to  speak,  sir.  Then  see  how  quick  the 
prophecy  '11  come  true.  Mr.  Wentworth  needn't  be 
afraid.  I've  told  him  he  needn't." 

"And  what,"  asked  Ammidown,  gently  but  with  an 
air  of  much  firmness — "what,  Mr.  Heffernan,  may  I 
ask,  have  you  told  a  certain  person  called  McGonigle." 

Heffernan  again  gave  that  smile  which  his  observer 
had  cause  to  remember  long  afterward,  hauntingly, 
as  we  remember  sinister  dreams. 

"My  word,  sir,  I  haven't  seen  him  for  weeks.  .  But 
I've  heard  from  him." 


WOMEN  MUST  WEEP  269 

"Ah,  you've  heard  ?"  said  Ammidown,  leaning  for- 
ward a  little,  so  that  the  altered  light  sent  silver 
gleams  from  the  gray  hairs  in  his  auburn  beard. 

"Yes,  sir,"  was  the  slow  reply,  made  rather  care- 
lessly. "I've  heard  that  he's  on  a  pretty  big  drunk, 
just  now — the  kind  that  makes  a  man  go  about  smell- 
ing o'  liquor  for  days,  with  his  stomach  and  blood 
full  of  it  but  his  feet  and  his  talk  not  showing  he's  got 
any  except  to  them  that  know  him  sober.  Excuse 
me,  but  3rou  ma\m't  have  come  across  that  kind  of  a 
spree.  There's  men  that  get  on  'em." 

Ammidown  bowed  gravely.  "And  that's  all  you've 
heard  about  him?" 

"No,"  was  answered,  after  a  slight  pause.  "I've 
heard  that  if  Mr.  Went  worth's  elected,  Larry  Mc- 
Gonigle  means  to  find  me  and  shoot  me  in  my  tracks. 
They  say  he's  sworn  it  half-a-dozen  times." 


XX 

Those  words  were  very  placidly  spoken  by  Hefter- 
nan.  He  puffed  away  at  his  big  black  cigar  while 
Ammidown  watched  him. 

- "  It's  a  bad  threat  from  a  man  in  the  state  you  tell 
me  of,"  at  length  said  the  editor.  "  Why  don't  you 
notice  it  ?  I  should  think  such  a  course  would  be  the 
wiser  one." 

Heffernan  rose  and  \vent  to  the  small  side  table 
where  the  liquor  was.  He  poured  himself  half  a 
tumblerful  of  stimulant,  whatever  its  name,  and 
drank  it  off  without  dilution,  taking  a  gulp  or  two 
of  water  afterward. 

"  I  can't  notice  it,"  he  said,  reseating  himself,  after 
having  loomed  gaunt  and  haggard  for  a  moment 
above  his  guest.  "  I  can't ;  I've  got  to  wait." 

"To  wait?"  echoed  Ammidown.  "Good  God! 
Wait  to  be  shot?" 

"Yes,  if  you  please— yes." 

"  But  there's  the  law." 

"That  for  the  law,  in  my  case!"  And  Heffernan 
snapped  two  bony  fingers  together  with  a  clicking  re- 
•sonance.  "Why,  I'm  the  law,  myself,  if  ye  choose. 
Let  me  get  that  man  put  in  jail  for  threats  on  my  life. 


WOMEN  MUST  WEEP  271 

They'll  all  know  just  why~he  threatens  it,  and  jeer 
and  sneer  at  me  behind  my  back  for  not  giving  Larry 
what  he  claims.  It's  payment  o'  debts  that  he  does 
claim,  Mr.  Ammidown.  Look -here:  You  know 
something  of  our  party,  but  how  much  d'  you  really 
know  ?  You've  kept  well  up  above  the  scum  and  filth. 
You've  gone  for  it  with  your  pen,  and  d— d  well, 
pretty  often.  But  you've  never  gone  into  it  so  that 
you  could  hear  the  slime  slush  round  your  ankles,  sir, 
as  I've  done.  That  Larry  McGonigle  has  served  me 
in  the  ways  that  I  haven't  got  the  nerve  to  tell  a  man 
like  you.  There's  dirty  things  done  in  this  town  of 
ours  every  year  that  would  almost  scare  hell  itself  to 
hear  about.  Well,  I  waded  in  the  rottenness  once, 
and  Larry  undertook  to  steer  me.  Now  he  wants  his 
pay,  and  now  I  ain't  willing  to  give  it  to  him." 

Ammidown  was  terribly  impressed.  The  man  who 
had  thus  spoken  had  bent  forward  in  his  chair 
and  had  fixed  upon  him  eyes  in  which  there  now 
seemed  to  sleep  a  satanic  darkness. 

But  the  effect  was  not  wholly  an  evil  one,  and  new 
\vords  from  the  same  source  deepened  it  for  good. 

"  No,  sir,  I  ain't  willing.  It  isn't  often  that  one  of 
us  chaps  thinks  of  a  better  life  when  he's  been  living 
a  bad  one  for  many  a  year,  like  me.  The  company  o' 
toughs  and  heelers  (fellers  that  would  make  a  father 
choose  between  the  shame  of  his  own  daughter  and  a 
vote  for  their  favorite  ticket — fellers  that  would  keep 
the  bread  from  a  starving  man's  fingers  if  he  wouldn't 
use  'em  to  slip  more  than  one  vote  in  at  the  polls  on 
a  single  day) — this  kind  o'  company,  Mr.  Ammidown, 
don't  tend  to  make  you  think  you'll  ever  quit  it  when 
it's  once  wound  its  coils  round  ye,  body  and  soul. 
But  some  months  ago— say  a  year  or  two,  say  a  little 


2  72  WOMEN  MUST  WEEP 

more — I  got  the  notion  o'  cutting  clean  loose.  It 
swep'  over  me  at  the  funniest  times.  It  was  like 
strokes  o'  neurallerga;  I  never  knew  just  when  I  needn't 
expect  it.  Sometimes  'twould  come  when  I  had  money 
flowing  in  to  me  like  water  and  not  a  worry  in  the 
world.  Then  there  was  my  wife.  She  didn't  know 
the  damnable  details  o'  my  politics,  she  didn't  know 
the  difference  between  a  .  .  a  mugwump  and  a  Tam- 
manyite,  for  that  matter;  but  she  knew  liars  and 
swindlers  and  thieves  had  got  me  in  their  grip,  and 
she  hated  the  trade  that  was  putting  dollars  in  to  my 
pocket.  My  wife,  sir,  has  done  most  of  it,  I  guess; 
she's  gone  into  a  partnership  with  my  conscience, 
and  by  G — ,  sir,  they've  kept  up  a  thriving  business 
ever  since.  They've  sent  me  in  checks,  between  'em, 
Heaven  bless  'em,  that  I  can't  cash !  But  I'll  do  it 
soon.  I'll  do  it  the  night  of  election-day — yes,  sir,  if  I 
have  to  write  the  endorsements  on  their  backs,  Mr. 
Ammidown,  with  blood  for  ink." 

The  sweat  glistened  in  beads  on  Heffernan's  hueless 
face  as  he  finished.  Ammidown,  \vith  a  great,  eager 
glow  on  his  own  face,  rose,  lifted  his  chair,  and 
carried  it  close  to  the  side  of  the  liquor-seller. 

"I — I  didn't  dream  you  felt,  like  this,"  he  said,  ex- 
citedly. ' '  And  you'll  cut  loose— how  ? ' ' 

"I '11  close  every  store  I've  got,  sir.  I'll  resign  the 
place  I  hold  under  city  government."  Then,  after  a 
pause,  during  which  a  clock  on  the  mantel  seemed  to 
tick  for  his  hearer's  astonished  ears  a  kind  of  hysteric 
confirmation,  like  "He  will,  he  will": — "And  I'll  do 
something  more  than  that.  .  Kill  me  if  I  don't!  "  he 
added. 

"Well,  .what?"  asked  the  editor,  somehow  be- 
lieving him  in  a  way  that  struck  little  thrills  of  self- 


WOMEN  MUST  WEEP  273 

ridicule  through  all  his  world-worn  being.  Still,  he 
spoke,  as  he  felt,  with  excessive  sincerity:  "What 
will  you  do,  Mr.  Heffernan  *  " 

"I'll  put  lots  o'  this  smutty  money  o'  mine  (that's 
what  my  wife  called  it,  and  she  was  right,  sir!) 
where  it  can  help  them  that  the  ungodly  liquor-trade 
has  cast  into  misery.  I  don't  mean  I'll  give  all  to 
charities ;  I'll  keep  enough  to  free  'Liza  and  me  from 
want  while  we  live  and  bury  us  decent  when  we  die. 
And  that  won't  mean  so  very  much,  neither;  there's 
a  good  many  thousands  that  '11  go.  I'm  richer  than 
most  people  know  about.  They  say  that  money 
made  as  I  make  it  slips  away  easy.  And  they're 
right;  so  it  does.  But  I  haven't  had  the  harum-scarum 
habits  that  mostly  go  along  with  liquor-dealing. 
I  swore  to  myself  nine  years  ago  that  I'd  be  worth  a 
half  million  'fore  I  was  fifty.  I'm  fifty  now,  and  I 
ain't  worth  the  sum,  but  I  ain't  so  far  away  from  it 
after  all— that  is,  between  rum  and  politics  both  to- 
gether. Well,  I  know  the  places  that  need  it  and 
where  it  '11  do  powers  o'  good.  We  know,  that  is, 
my  wife  and  me,  though  she'll  boss  the  job,  I  give  in." 

Heffernan 's  cigar  had  gone  out.  He  got  up  and 
found  a  light  for  it,  and  as  he  returned  to  his  seat, 
which  was  now  so  close  to  Ammidown's,  the  latter 
had  a  hand  stretched  out  for  him,  which  he  grasped 
with  a  visible  tremor  through  all  his  big  frame. 

"Mr.  Ammidown,"  he  muttered,  "  I  didn't  put  out 
my  hand  when  .  .  when  you  first  came  into  this 
room." 

"True,  Heffernan.    I  .  .  I  saw  you  didn't." 

"  'Twasn't  my  place,  sir.  Look  here,  I've  got  a 
mighty  lot  o'  respect  for  you.  I  called  you  thin- 
skinned  a  minute  ago,  sir " 

18 


274  WOMEN  MUST  WEEP 

"  And  you  were  right,"  struck  in  the  editor,  with  a 
nervous  laugh.  "  It's  what's  kept  me  a  failure,  I  sup- 
pose, all  my  days." 

"A  failure!"  cried  Heffernan,  striking  one  gaunt 
knee  with  his  huge,  tight-clenched  fist.  "No,  sir.  For 
you're  no  failure.  You've  stood  up  for  right.  Oh, 
I've  kept  an  eye  on  you,  sir.  I've " 

"Stop,"  said  Ammidown,  with  much  dignity,  and 
yet  a  warmth  and  grace  of  mien  which  would  long 
ago  have  pushed  him  where  men  of  quarter  his  brain 
and  force  had  to-day  found  handsome  harbors,  if 
only  he  could  have  used  it  less  rarely  and  more  in- 
sincerely. "Stop,  my  man;  I  don't  deserve  your 
praise.  Mine  has  been  no  unselfish  life ;  I  never  saw 
it  more  clearly  than  while  you  spoke  just  now. 
What  you  say  you  mean  to  do  Tve  never  dreamed  of 
meaning  to  do." 

"  How  could  you,  sir  ?     You're " 

"Oh,  everything's  relative.  I  know  what  you'd 
say :  our  advantages  of  early  training  were  not  the 
same.  But  if  mine  were  more  than  yours,  all  the 
larger  reason  I  should  have  thought  less  about  self- 
advancement  than  self-repression." 

"Come,  now,  sir!  I'll  bet  you've  thought  very 
little  about  self-advancement  in  your  life ! " 

Ammidown  flung  off  a  laugh  of  blended  mockery 
and  amusement.  "Ah,  my  friend,  I've  thought  of 
hardly  anything  else,"  he  replied. 

"  But  I  can't  believe  it  of  you,  sir ! " 

"7  can,  though.  With  a  fine  education,  with 
natural  talents,  with  all  that  should  teach  a  man  the 
best  lessons  of  life,  I  gave  myself  up  to  service  of  self. 
Not  that  I  didn't  flatter  my  own  mind  to  the  effect 
that  I  wanted  the  good  of  my  fellow-men  above  all 


WOMEN  MUST  WEEP  275 

things.  But  secretly  I  was  aiming  at  personal  ad- 
vancement through  honest  means.  So  many  men  do 
that,  and  then  persuade  themselves  that  they  are 
'  reformers.'  I  have  happened  to  possess  a  great  deal 
of  what  is  called  'pride.'  This  quality  has  kept  me 
out  of  certain  high  places  which  others  have  elbowed 
past  me  and  seized.  It's  no  credit  to  me,  Heffernan, 
that  I  resisted  doing  the  things  you  did.  It's  im- 
mense credit  to  you,  though,  that  you've  risen  above 
your  surroundings.  I  admire  you,  I  honor  you  for 
this  resolve.  If  anyone  else  (to  be  wholly  candid) 
had  told  me  that  you  intended  such  a  course,  I  should 
have  doubted  my  informant.  You  yourself  have  told 
me,  I've  listened,  and  I  haven't  the  shadow  of  a 
doubt.  I  feel,  at  this  moment,  your  inferior.  Com- 
ing here  to  make  up  my  mind  whether  you  had  de- 
termined or  no  on  a  particular  piece  of  roguery,  I'm 
confronted  with  the  fact  that  you've  a  native  moral 
sense  twice  the  size  of  my  own :  for  if  I  had  sunk  as 
you  did,  it's  certain  that,  I  could  never  have  swung 
im^self  up  again  with  your  magnificent  courage  and 
force." 

A  slight  pause  followed,  and  then  Ammidown 
threw  back  his  head  with  a  cynic  change  passing  in- 
describably over  his  lips  and  brow.  "  Good  God,"  he 
went  on,  "  what  a  feast  for  my  foes  I'd  make  at  this 
moment!  Yet  you've  led  me  to  believe  you"  (and 
here  the  cynic  change  died  with  the  speed  of  its  birth) 
"as  you've  led  me  to  disbelieve  —  to  despise  my- 
self! "  .  . 

It  was  after  eleven,  that  night,  when  Ammidown 
got  home  and  went  up  into  his  library.  As  he  neared 
that  room  he  heard  voices,  and  on  entering  he  found 
his  wife  and  Florence  side  by  side. 


276  WOMEN  MUST  WEEP 

"Here's  papa,  now,"  said  Florence,  with  an  excited 
sadness.  "  Ask  him  if  he  didn't  notice  anything." 

"Oh,  never  mind,  never  mind,"  protested  her 
mother,  in  worried  accents.  "  Florence,  why  can't 
you  let  well  alone?" 

"What  is  it?"  inquired  Ammidown,  taking  his 
daughter  by  either  of  her  wrists  and  looking  fondly 
though  a  little  abruptly  into  her  face.  "  Has  one  of 
your  'dude'  admirers  dared  to  come  to  you  this  even- 
ing in  a  collar  the  sixteenth  of  an  inch  below  reigning 
fashion?" 

"I've no  'dudes'  on  my  list,  papa,"  said  Florence, 
trying  to  look  august.  Then,  growing  simply  serious 
again,  "mamma  and  I  were  talking  of  Gordon." 

"  Gordon?"  said  her  father  quickly.    "  Well?" 

"He  went  out  this  evening  for  an  hour  or  two," 
replied  Florence.  "He's  at  home  again,  now;  he's 
with  Annette.  But  I  thought  it  wasn't  all  right  with 
him.  Perhaps  I  may  have  been  wrong,  but—" 

"  Oh,  I'm  sure  Florence  was  wrong,"  broke  in  Mrs. 
Ammidown.  Then  she  said  more,  and  Florence  said 
more;  and  after  the  editor  had  been  landed  in  a  de- 
pressing little  slough  of  doubt,  Florence  kissed  both 
her  parents  and  quitted  the  library.  When  the  girl 
had  gone,  Ammidown  was  on  the  point  of  speaking 
further  concerning  Gordon;  but  his  wife  cut  him  short 
with— 

"Now,  Simeon,  don't  let's  borrow  trouble.  There 
is  decided  uncertainty  any  way;  and  besides,  he's  at 
home  with  Annette  for  the  present.  Florence  gets 
nervous  if  the  boy  is  the  least  gayer  or  duller  than" 
his  ordinary  self.  .  .  .  Now  do  tell  me  what  happened 
between  you  and  that  dreadful  person  you  visited." 

"Don't  call  him  a  dreadful  person,  Louise,"  was 


WOMEN  MUST  WEEP  277 

the  reply.  .  .  .  After  that  Ammidown  spoke  at  some 
length,  his  wife  intently  listening.  .  . 

"Don't  you  think,  Simeon,"  she  slowly  said,  quite 
a  good  while  later,  "that  if  this  man's  life  is  in  danger 
certain  protective  measures  should  be  taken?" 

"My  dear,"  smiled  her  husband,  "who  is  to  take 
such  measures  but  the  threatened  man  himself." 

"  And  he  won't  take  them  ?" 

"I've  told  you  what  he  said." 

"  You're  sure  he  said  what  he  meant,  Simeon?" 

"No.  I'm  not  sure  now,  though  I  was  then.  I  can 
only  record  for  you  his  effect  upon  me,  Louise.  It 
was  tremendous  while  it  lasted.  There  stood  that 
gloomy  giant,  with  a  strange  light  in  his  face  and 
with  heroic  words  on  his  lips.  The  drama  of  the 
thing  struck  me;  my  flesh  began  to  creep;  I'm  afraid 
I  became  a  trifle  hysteric — 'gave  myself  away,'  as  the 
saying  goes.  For  here,  you  know,  would  be  a  deed 
of  truly  splendid  renunciation.  I  think  you  don't  and 
can't  realize  the  breadth  and  height  of  it.  If  this  man 
throws  disdain  in  the  teeth  of  those  vulpine  thieves 
and  gamblers  who  make  up  his  world  and  who  have 
backed  him  for  years  with  their  badness,  he  will  be 
performing  an  act  of  sublime  bravery.  Mere  risk  of 
life  will  not  be  all  with  him.  There  is  a  kind  of  honor 
among  these  blackguards  that  steal  our  tax-money. 
To  quarrel  with  one  viperous  knot  of  them  is  to 
quarrel  with  all.  Heffernan  will  "find  himself  loathed 
by  every  man  of  his  old  constituency — a  pariah,  in- 
deed. But  honest  men,  on  the  other  hand,  will  not 
care  to  know  him— surely  will  not  care  to  place  him 
on  their  own  levels.  He  must  either  change  his  skies, 
or  breathe  the  air  of  these  only  to  feel  them  loaded 
with  maledictions,  execrations.' ' 


278  WOMEN  MUST  WEEP 

"Mark  me,  Simeon,  he'll  never  do  the  thing,"  said 
Mrs.  Atnmidown,  who  would  as  soon  have  believed 
that  a  pot  of  diamonds  lay  buried  in  her  back  yard 
as  that  any  good  might  come  from  a  person  of  Hef- 
fernan's  type.  "He  was  posing  before  you,  and 
nothing  else." 

"Well,  perhaps,"  murmured  the  editor,  sinking  his 
bearded  chin  for  a  moment  into  his  shirt-front,  where 
he  sat  within  his  own  big,  tufted  reading-chair,  and 
drawing  a  hand  through  locks  that  time,  as  if  with 
sudden  expeditious  spleen,  had  both  blanched  and 
thinned.  "I  only  know  that  if  Andrew  Heffernan 
does  make  that  move,  Louise,  he'll  show  himself  far 
more  of  a  man  than  many  another,  differently  reared, 
who's  just  gone  on  living  in  righteous  ways  without 
a  temptation  to  be  fought  and  quelled." 

Mrs.  Ammidown  smiled.  "  Oh,  yes,  if  he  makes  it ! 
.  .  And  how  did  you  give  yourself  away  to  him,  as  you 
call  it?" 

He  told  her  what  he  had  confessed,  and  she  bridled 
as  she  learned  it. 

"You  selfish!"  she  exclaimed. 

"It's  true." 

"Absurd!  you're  'touchy'  as  a  porcupine,  but " 

"  My  dear,  I'm  a  sore-head,  and  you  know  it.  Now, 
most  sore-heads  are  selfish.  I  struck  the  wrong  note 
of  effort  in  my  early  life.  That  note  should  have 
been:  'How  best  can  I  serve  my  race  without  any 
thought  of  wages?'  Instead  of  that,  the  note  was 
sounded  thus:  '  How  best,  through  serving  m\*self, 
can  I  serve  my  race?'  There's  a  big  divergence  be- 
tween the  two  sentiments." 

"Oh,  Simeon!  You  wrong  yourself  horridly." 
And  here  Mrs.  Ammidown  came  round  to  the  back  of 


WOMEN  MUST  WEEP  279 


his  chair  and  stooped  with  both  hands  outstretched, 
presently  clasping  them  just  at  her  dear  lord's  bearded 
throat.  "Your  only  fault  is  one  that  your  worst 
foes  might  easily  pardon,  since  its  results  injure  no- 
body but  yourself.  You  will  not  cringe  and  truckle 
to  anyone ;  and  you  have  a  spirit  that  since  it  is  con- 
scious of  its  own  deserts  from  mankind,  cannot  help 
silently,  within  the  recesses  of  its  own  reflections, 
demanding  a  certain  homage.  But  my  dear  hus- 
band" (and  now  the  wifely  hands  crept  up  to  the 
sparse  hair  at  either  of  his  temples  and  began  to 
smooth  it  with  delicate  strokes) ,  "you  have  a  nature 
that  would  despise  homage  if  you  received  it.  You're 
loftier  than  you  esteem  yourself,  and  the  instant  your 
talents  obtained  that  respect  which  you  are  certain  is 
their  right,  you  would  rate  such  tribute  as  quite 
worthless.  What  you  will  not  stoop  to  get,  you 
would  hold  in  scorn  if  it  flowed  in  upon  you  as  your 
proper  due.  Only,  you  must  have  it  first,  without 
stooping.  You  rate  it  your  prerogative,  but  you 
would  scarcely  have  given  it  a  thought  if  you  had 
never  been  called  upon  to  miss  it.  Your  case  isn't  a 
common  one,  Simeon,  for  your  brilliant  powers  make 
it  exceptional.  But  there  alone  is  it  exceptional.  Men 
of  far  less  mind  have  no  doubt  stood  on  their  inch  of 
dignity ;  you  had  a  wider  tract  of  vantage  to  stand 
on,  and  there  you  bode." 

Turning  his  head  sideways  he  looked  up  at  her  with 
a  forlorn  smile.  "  Oh,  Louise,"  he  exclaimed,  "what  a 
wretched  egotist  you  paint  me !  " 

She  kissed  him  twice  or  thrice  on  the  forehead. 
"Don't  say  that!  It  pains  me  to  hear  you!  Of  all 
others  on  earth  I  should  be  the  last  to  admit  you  are 
right !  So  many  women  of  my  age  can  look  back  to 


280  WOMEN  MUST  WEEP 

their  wedding-days  through  only  mists  of  tears. 
And  I  look  back  to  ours  as  if  beyond  a  beautiful 
landscape  of  memories!"  .  .  .  She  moved  round 
toward  his  side,  now,  and  stood  there  gazing  pen- 
sively down  upon  him.  "If  Florence  ever  does 
marry,  I  tremble  at  what  may  come  of  it.  There  are 
Annette's  two  sisters ;  both  still  are  \vives,  and  yet 
both  in  a  certain  sense  have  become  widows." 

"  I  imagine,"  said  Ammidown,  after  a  silence,  "that 
there's  a  wilful  streak  in  those  two  women  which 
Annette  hasn't  a  trace  of.  Don't  vou  think  I  may  be 
right?" 

"Annette  doesn't  approve  Mrs.  Kinnicutt's  course." 
"And  the  other  sister's — does  she  approve  that?  " 
"Mr.  Legree  struck  Eunice.    Separation  and  self- 
protection  appear  to  have  been  one,  in  that  instance." 
"  Ah,  well  .  .  We  so  seldom  hear  both  sides  in  these 
matters.    But  personal  violence  is  of  course  a  hor- 
ror .  .  .  Still,  both  these  women,  from  what  I  saw  of 
them,  seemed  to  lack  gentleness.    I  may  be  wrong, 
though,  for  our  meetings  have  been  so  few  and  so 
brief." 

Their  present  critic  would  not  have  accused  either 
Eunice  or  Dora  of  a  lack  of  gentleness  if  he  had  ob- 
served them  during  the  next  day  while  a  sudden, 
rather  painful  occurrence  befell  them .  Expecting  that 
their  cousin,  Mrs.  Plimpsoll,  might  soon  call  on  them 
after  learning  of  their  changed  abode,  they  were  sur- 
prised to  receive  a  visit  from  Mr.  Ezra  Plimpsoll 
alone.  But  surprise  that  he  should  dare  venture 
from  Harlem  without  the  protective  presence  of  his 
wife  soon  ended  in  sorrow  at  his  tidings  concerning 
her.  He  himself  looked  ruddy  and  hale  as  ever  while 
he  delivered  these  tidings,  though  a  plain  agitation 
mastered  him. 


WOMEN  MUST  WEEP  281 

"So  sudden!"  exclaimed  Eunice.  "Poor  Rhoda! 
You  say  she  was  taken  only  yesterday  ?  I'll  go  right 
up  there  with  you  now.  Did  she  ask  to  have  one  of 
us  come? " 

"She  asked  to  see  you  both— and  Annette,  too," 
faltered  Plimpsoll.  "  She's  so  fond  of  you  all,  you 
know." 

"  Eunice  and  I  will  both  go,"  announced  Dora.  .  . 

"And  how  are  you?  "  inquired  Eunice  of  the  ever- 
ailing  Ezra  as  they  all  three  went  up-town  together 
on  the  Elevated. 

"  Oh,  yes,"  exclaimed  Dora,  laughing.  "  You  make 
a  person  forget  to  ask  about  your  health,  because 
you  look  as  if 'twas  so  awfully  .good." 

"I— I  haven't  had  any  bad  feelings,"  came  his 
hesitant  answer,  "since  poor  Rhoda  was  taken. 
Her— her  sickness  seems  to  have  scared  'em  away." 

"It's  an  ill  wind,  you  know,"  said  Eunice. 

"Oh,  but  I  don't  want  it  to  blow  me  any  good  if 
it  knocks  her  over ! ' '  said  Ezra,  his  eyes  filling  with 
tears. 

It  was  evident  that  he  was  very  much  frightened. 
The  thought  of  losing  this  fragile  little  creature  whom 
his  ills  and  his  plaints  had  worried  for  years,  affected 
him  with  real  horror.  "  You'll  find  her  scarcely  able 
to  hold  her  head  up,"  he  said  to  Eunice  and  Dora; 
and  then,  to  his  juvenile  delight,  this  prophecy  proved 
a  false  one  when  they  arrived  at  the  Plimpsolls'  Har- 
lem home. 

"  Oh,  Rhoda !  "  he  cried,  on  seeing  his  wife  clad  in  a 
wrapper  and  seated  in  an  arm-chair.  "You  don't 
mean  you're  well  enough  to  get  up  ?  " 

"Yes,"  said  Mrs.  Plimpsoll,  who  was  very  pale, 
and  gasped  a  little.  "  I  felt  so  much  stronger  that  I 


282  WOMEN  MUST  WEEP 

got  Jane  to  help  me  up.  After  all,  tfie  mote  folks  lay 
in  bed  the  more  they  \vant  to,  /think  .  .  .  Well,  girls, 
I'm  so  glad  you  came!  I  hope  you  didn't  let  Ezra 
frighten  you  about  me." 

"Rhoda,"  Eunice  presently  said,  "I  don't  believe 
there's  anything  really  serious  the  matter  \vith  you 
except  a  kind  of  general  exhaustion.  But  you  must 
go  right  straight  back  to  bed  and  not  rise  from  it 
till  you're  stronger.  Your  lips  are  blue  now,  and 
your  pulse  is  altogether  too  fast.  Now  let  me  per- 
suade you,  dear,  won't  you  ?  " 

Mrs.  Plimpsoll  soon  complied,  and  after  she  was 
lying  comfortably  between  fresh  bed-clothes  and  let- 
ting Eunice  bathe  her  head  and  chafe  her  hands,  the 
little  lady,  in  feeble  yet  very  earnest  whisper,  began 
to  say 

"  Oh,  yes,  Eunice;  you  were  right.  I  hadn't  ought 
to  have  got  up.  But  do  you  know,  dear,  it  was  be- 
cause of  him?  I  did  so  hate  he  should  come  back  and 
find  me  no  better;  so  I  says  to  myself  I'd  just  make 
him  b'lieve  I  was  better  anyhow." 

"You're  too  good  to  him,  Rhoda;  you  humor  him 
too  much.  Everybody  thinks  you  do." 

"  But  then  he's  such  a  sufferer,  Eunice !  You  haven't 
got  an  idea  what  that  poor  man  goes  through." 

"  From  fright  you  mean  ?" 

"  Oh,  he's  nervous;  I  allow  that.  But  then  he  has 
feeling's  !  Why,  Eunice,  you  don't  know  how  often 
I've  sat  in  this  very  room  quaking  with  fear,  and  ex- 
pecting each  minute  he'd  go  off  in  a  fit  of  p'ralysis  or 
apperlepsy." 

*  "  And  it's  because  you've  quaked  with  fear,  Rhoda, 
that  you're  so  run  down  now.  He's  been  cruel — " 

"Oh,  don't  call  him  cruel !" 


WOMEN  MUST  WEEP  283 

"Well,  childish,  then." 

"  He's  got  a  child's  heart,  my  Ezra !"  the  sick  little 
creature  sighed.  "And  he  clings  to  me  in  such  a  child- 
like way !  Yes,  Eunice,  you'd  be  surprised !  Now  you 
smile;  I  know  it  seems  to  you  ridic'lous  that  a  great 
strapping  fellow  like  him  should  really  cling  to  a 
weak  whiffet  of  a  thing  like  me.  But  it's  so.  If  I  should 
die— well,  that's  precisely  why  the  thought  'o  death 
scares  me  as  it  does.  'Tain't  that  I'm  'fraid  to  go." 
Here  she  sank  her  voice  to  a  very  low  key,  and 
peered  anxiously  into  Eunice's  face.  "It's  that  he's 
so  'fraid,  Eunice,  to  have  me  go  !  What  would  he  do? 
Why  he'd  go  crazy,  that's  what  he'd  do." 

'He'd  probably  get  married  again,"  thought 
Eunice,  though  she  would  have  torn  out  her  tongue 
rather  than  say  it. 

Meanwhile  Ezra,  in  a  neighboring  room,  was  say- 
ing \vith  childlike  expansiveness  to  Dora: 

"  Oh,  I  realize  it  now !  I've  treated  that  dear  little 
wife  of  mine  shamefully.  Look  here,  Dora,  I've  .  .I've 
sometimes  (not  al ways,  you  know,  but  sometimes) 
told  her  I — I  was  sicker  than  I  really  felt." 

"  That  was  outrageous,"  said  Dora. 

"Don't  accuse  me  like  that,  Dora,"  said  Plimpsoll. 
I — I  can't  bear  it." 

Dora  looked  grim  for  a  minute.  Then  she  said: 
"  If  you'll  let  me  tell  you  so,  I've  an  idea  that  you 
don't  amount  to  much  in  bearing  things,  anyway. 

"No.,  no,"  lamented  Plimpsoll,  "I'm  afraid  I 
don't." 

"Well,  try  to  in  the  future.  Try,  when  she's 
well—" 

"But  do  you  think  she'll  get  well?  Oh,  Dora,  do 
you?" 


284  WOMEN  MUST  WEEP 

In  his  healthful  apparent  virility  this  question  from 
him  struck  Dora  as  almost  insupportably  babyish. 
But  soon  she  remembered  how  good  a  husband  he 
was,  after  all,  and  how  he  adored  the  little  wife 
whom  Eunice  had  just  put  to  bed. 

"Yes,  I  believe  she  will  get  well,"  came  Dora's  re- 
ply, given  with  a  controlled  yet  ardent  sympathy. 
"And  if  she  does " 

"If!  if!"  panted  Plimpsoll,  bursting  into  tears. 
"Oh,  do  you  think  there's  a  doubt,  then?  Perhaps 
you  think  there's  a  great  doubt!  My  God,  what 
should  I  do  if  I  lost  her!" 

"  Why  not  consider,"  sai(^Dora  dryly,  yet  not  with- 
out an  inward  throb  of  deep  pity,  "what  you  may 
do  if  she's  spared  to  you?" 

"I've  been  very  weak,"  avowed  Plimpsoll,  wiping 
his  eyes.  "But  when  all's  said,  I— I  haven't  been 
such  a  bad  husband.  She's  meant  every  thing  to  me." 

"  She's  meant  too  much,"  said.Dora  cruelly.  "She's 
meant  wife,  nurse,  doctor,  housekeeper  and  servant." 

' '  Oh,  no !    Not  servant ! ' ' 

"She's  served  you  oftener  than  you'll  admit, "Dora 
pursued  ..."  But  I  don't  want  to  lecture  you.  Let's 
go  in  and  see  how  she's  getting  along." 

They  entered  the  room  where  Eunice  sat  beside 
Mrs.  Plimpsoll.  At  the  first  glimpse  of  her  husband 
the  latter  brightened  and  put  forth  a  hand.  With 
a  jubilant  look,  Ezra  clasped  it. 

"How  do  you  feel,  dear?"  murmured  the  invalid. 

Dora  and  Eunice  exchanged  glances.  There  seemed 
such  keen  absurdity,  mixed  with  pathos,  in  this  re- 
sumption of  the  old  relations  between  husband  and 
wife. 

"Why  on  earth  don't  you  ask  her  how  she  feels?" 


WOMEN  MUST  WEEP  285 

Dora  remonstrated,  addressing  the  husband.  But  he 
did  not  hear;  he  was  too  absorbed  (as  if  swayed  by 
the  stress  of  old  habit)  in  explaining  his  exact  sensa- 
tions to  the  pale,  prone  little  questioner. 

''I'm  all  right  except  for  a  few  touches,  now  and 
then,"  said  Plimpsoll,  "of  that  queer  coldness  just  at 
the  root  of  my  spine." 

"Oh,  nonsense,  Ezra,"  returned  the  sick  woman, 
lifting  herself  up  solicitously  on  the  pillows.  "I've 
had  that  thousands  o'  times.  Don't  bother  about 
it.  As  I  told  you  yesterday,  it's  a  mere  nothing.  I 
guess  it  only  comes  from  indigestion.  Dr.  Todd,  you 
know,  your  new  doctor,  said  yesterday  that  your 
only  trouble,  Ezra,  was  nervous  dyspepsia." 

At  this  point  Eunice  slipped  between  the  joined 
hands  of  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Plimpsoll,  gently  sundering 
them.  In  another  moment  Dora  pushed  Plimpsoll 
softly  away  from  the  bedside.  .  .  .  Later,  when  there 
was  every  sign  that  their  kinswoman  would  recover 
after  a  few  more  hours  of  complete  rest  and  when 
Eunice  and  Dora  had  decided  to  take  their  departure, 
the  elder  sister  whispered  to  the  younger: 

"Oh,  Dora,  how  many  kinds  of  unhappy  marriages 
there  are  in  this  world!" 

"But  this,"  replied  Dora,  "is  what  they  would  call 
a  very  happy  marriage  indeed." 

Eunice  sighed.    "Oh,  no  doubt,"  she  acceded. 

"  But,  after  all,  Eunice,  he's  in  some  ways  a  model 
husband," 

"Yes,  if  you  choose." 

"And  he  just  worships  her." 

"Yes— in  his  fashion." 

"You  don't  think  Rhoda's  got  any  thing  serious  the 
matter  with  her,  Eunice?" 


286  WOMEN  MUST  WEEP 

"No,  she's  simply  worn  out  with  his  idiotic  nag- 
gings." 

"  I  guess  you're  right,"  affirmed  Dora,  with  an  air 
at  once  sapient  and  hostile.  "  But  I've  done  a  little 
talking  myself,  to  Rhoda's  lord  and  master,  and  I've 
shown  him,  I  hope,  what  a  goose  he's  been  living 
like." 

"Oh,  have  you?"  said  Eunice,  with  playful  sar- 
casm. "You  needen't  have  wasted  a  word,"  she 
went  on.  "When  Rhoda  gets  well  it  will  all  go 
along  precisely  as  it  went  before." 

"  But  he's  been  warned "  began  Dora. 

"Has  he,  though!  He'll  forget  the  warning  in  no 
time.  Rhoda  herself '11  help  him  to.  They're  both  too 
old  to  learn  new  tricks.  You  just  see,  now." 

After  a  slight  pause  Dora  began,  as  if  musing  aloud: 
"Ah  how  true  it  is  that  there  are  many  different 
kinds  of  unhappy  marriages!  And  it's  the  strangest 
thing  of  all  that  even  love  shouldn't  be  a  safeguard. 
I  used  to  think  that  it  was.  I  used  to  think  that 
love  and  happiness  \vent  hand-in-hand,  like  two  well- 
behaved  children  along  a  country-road."  Then  her  old 
humor  cropped  out,  and  she  added:  "But  I  see  now 
that  they  don't  always  hold  one  another's  hands. 
It's  too  binding;  they  want  liberty,  sometimes,  to 
tear  each  other's  hair  out." 


XXI 

All  through  the  next  day  ominous  growls  reached 
Heffernan.  He  visited  his  various  establishments 
and  met  in  each  a  sign  or  two  of  the  augmenting  dis- 
favor he  had  roused.  Several  anonymous  letters 
reached  him,  all  being  more  or  less  fierce,  and  one 
aflame  with  savageries  of  menace.  He  tore  them  into 
inch-bits,  and  rejoiced  that  their  contents  could  be 
spared  the  knowledge  of  his  wife.  Three  of  his  fel- 
low-aldermen looked  him  up  at  his  Third  avenue 
tavern,  and  two  of  them  attempted  roundly  to  scold 
him;  the  other  did  more — he  sought  to  bully  him 
truculently.  These  interviews  were  highly  painful, 
but  Heffernan  bore  them  with  stoicism.  The  whole 
situation  had  begun  to  look  excessively  stormful  and 
lowering.  An  audacious  fraud  had  been  expected  of 
him  by  the  gang  of  unprisoned  felons  who  believed 
that  he  would  not  dare,  when  it  reached  an  actual 
issue,  to  ignore  obligations  that  seemed  to  them  like 
strong  withes  bound  about  his  ankles  and  wrists. 
These  rascals  were  mostly  law-makers  in  a  city  that 
hideous  laxities  on  the  part  of  its  residents  had  sur- 
rendered to  their  wanton  rule.  Larry  McGonigle  did 
not  swim  visibly  into  the  ken  of  his  former  ally  all 


288  WOMEN  MUST  WEEP 

through  that  day.  But  his  name  was  not  seldom 
mentioned  to  Heffernan.  He  was  like  some  mythic 
ambushed  avenger  whose  whereabouts  were  swathed 
in  a  mist  of  brooding  fire.  The  liquor-seller  found  that 
this  implacable  candidate  of  a  "split  ticket"  had 
chosen  to  send  him  emissaries  either  bristling  with 
threat  or  packed  with  oily-tongued  blandishments. 
There  was  clearly  a  desperate  flurry  in  the  McGonigle 
camp.  What  incensed  and  embittered  his  old  col- 
leagues was  his  refusal  to  state  the  truth  or  falsehood 
of  certain  reports.  On  the  morrow  they  should  see 
what  they  should  see.  Such  was  his  mysterious  pos- 
ture, and  no  slur,  no  impertinence,  open  or  covert, 
could  induce  him  to  admit  just  how  that  bribable  co- 
hort of  "boys"  whom  he  held  in  control  with  the  Went- 
worth  money  would  be  manipulated  at  the  coming 
polls.  Meanwhile  his  stand  had  been  inflexibly 
though  secretly  taken.  There  were  certain  agents  in 
his  employ  of  whom  both  he  and  the  young  "gentle- 
man" candidate  he  served  had  taken  cautious  account. 
Vernal  though  the  election  would  be  in  one  sense,  it 
would  prove,  in  another,  as  honest  a  proceeding  of 
the  sort  as  this  district  had  seen  for  many  a  year.  He 
meant  that  his  last  political  act  should  teem  with  de- 
fiance of  that  species  of  corruption  which  he  held  as 
among  the  basest. 

Evidently  McGonigle  had  believed  until  now  that 
he  would  not  presume  to  sever  those  old  tenacious  ties. 
Sulky  and  aloof,  the  scamp  had  made  his  convictions 
on  this  point  palpably  felt.  By  lifting  a  finger,  Hef- 
fernan, during  these  latter  days  before  election,  could 
have  signified  that  a  flaw  breeze  of  treachery  to  Went- 
worth  would  set  in  just  at  the  desired  moment.  But 
now  the  last  day  of  all  had  come,  and  he  still  remained 


WOMEN  MUST  WEEP  289 

suspiciously  mute.  A  tremor  of  virtuous  disgust  had 
swept  through  the  pure  souls  of  those  who  guaged 
the  proper  strength  of  "Larry's  pull."  Here  was  no 
ordinary  "  pull,"  either.  Some  leaders  might  natur- 
ally frown  at  such  a  game  as  Heffernan  was  asked  to 
play.  But  then  he  was  a  leader  who  owed  McGonigle 
a  mighty  debt.  The  Boss  admitted  that,  and  had 
given  Heffernan  his  views  on  the  subject  only  a  few 
weeks  ago.  This  was  a  Boss  in  all  ways  worthy  of 
his  imperial  place,  and  one  duly  pierced  by  a  sense  of 
the  majesty  of  the  machine.  He  did  not,  like  the 
French  king,  say"  the  Machine,  it  is  I ;"  but  he  said, 
in  so  many  words,  "to  run  the  machine  as  it  should 
be  run  is  to  make  a  jackass  of  the  people." 

For  a  leader  like  Heffernan  to  set  himself  against 
the  counsel  of  his  Boss  was  in  the  eyes  of  the  faithful 
an  enormity.  To  men  bonded  together  for  the  pur- 
pose of  pla}ring  with  marked  cards,  that  one  of  their 
number  should  suddenly  fling  his  hand  on  the  table 
and  point  out  to  inimical  eyes  the  little  tell-tales  signs 
in  knave,  queen  or  ace,  was  punic  faith  of  the  direst 
quality.  Not  yet  had  this  abhorrent  thing  really  oc- 
curred, though  gossip  raged,  and  it  was  well  know 
that  Heffernan  had  let  certain  peculiar  words  fall 
among  his  fellow-aldermen  last  week,  besides  having 
coolly  ignored  a  message  sent  him  from  royal  head- 
quarters. He  had  never  been  much  liked  and  always 
a  little  feared.  Now  he  was  liked  a  good  deal  less  and 
feared  a  good  deal  more.  To  the  bands  of  municipal 
robbers  who  infest  New  York  high  places,  nothing  is 
so  terrifying  as  desertion  from  their  ranks.  Asin  the 
times  of  Tweed,  so  in  the  present  day :  to  be  "  solid  " 
is  the  nearest  guarantee  of  being  safe.  Bribery  itself 
is  fraught  with  fewer  perils  than  one  thinks.  The 
19 


290  WOMEN  MUST  WEEP 

giver  and  those  who  receive  are  all  self-sealed  against 
disclosure.  But  there  have  been  cases  where  Con- 
science abruptly  stepped  in,  and  with  result  more 
dangerous  to  guilt  than  the  ferretings  of  a  posse  of  de- 
tectives. Was  Conscience  now  nerving  the  arm  of 
Andrew  Heffernan  for  the  infliction  of  an  axe-stroke 
that  should  ruin  the  "solidity"  of  swindling  feder- 
ations, and  give  the  public  a  chance  to  look  in  through 
the  aperture  thus  wrought  and  gain  a  few  glimpses 
of  just  how  they  are  plundered  from  year  to  year? 
Surely  such  a  calamity  should  be  staved  off.  Had  the 
Ring  no  thunder-bolts  in  its  quiver  wherewith  to 
smite  this  rebel  low?  Bad  a  job  as  was  the  one  Mc- 
Gonigle  had  been  said  to  have  proposed,  if  he  should 
slip,  after  all,  into  the  congressional  shoes  of  young 
"gilt-edged"  Wentworth,  how  much  better  it  would 
be  for  the  "boys!"  Larry  would  see  that  fat  berths 
in  the  navy-yard,  the  custom-house,  the  post-office 
and  the  Treasury  were  supplied  to  deserving  friends. 
But  who  could  tell  what  highfalutin  ideas  about 
"  clean  records  "  and  all  such  stuff  as  that,  might  visit 
the  brain  of  this  "kid-glove  gent,"  if  once  he  were  in- 
stalled at  the  capital  ? 

Heffernan  narrowly  escaped  insult  before  the  day 
was  over.  He  felt  quite  sure  as  to  how  the  election 
would  go  on  the  morrow,  and  during  a  brief  inter- 
view with  young  Wentworth,  at  his  residence  not  far 
from  the,  Third  avenue  saloon,  he  made  this  distinct 
declaration. 

Wentworth,  a  young  man  just  past  thirty,  with  a 
pale,  high-bred,  eager  face,  thoroughly  American  in 
type,  asked  him  certain  searching  questions  which 
were  replied  to  with  satisfactory  clearness. 

"I  think  things  can't  miss  fire,  then,"  at  length, 


WOMEN  MUST  WEEP  291 

said  Wentworth,  in  his  quick,  keen  style,  delivering 
his  words  with  what  we  call  a  Boston  accent — one, 
by  the  way,  to  which  he  came  through  good  right, 
having  not  only  been  graduated  from  Harvard,  but 
having  lived  in  sight  'of  the  classic  Charles  through 
most  of  his  childhood. 

"You  can  sleep  sound  to-night,  sir,"  returned 
Heffernan,  rising  to  depart.  "Your  ballots  '11  all  be 
run  out  from  the  boxes.  The  other  fellers  can  growl 
as  they  please,  but  they  don't  dare  do  anything  else. 
I've  called  the  henchmen  together,  and  my  word's 
law  to  'em.  There  couldn't  be  any  knifing  of  you 
done  in  {the  district  unless  I  chose  to  give  orders  for 
it." 

"Good  Heavens,  Air.  Heffernan,"  replied  Went- 
worth, with  a  nervous  laugh,  "I  must  say  that 
you're  frightful^  candid." 

Heffernan  gave  one  of  his  gloomy  nods.  "  Well,  sir, 
I'm  speaking  right  out.  You've  got  the  straight  tip 
from  me,  and  that's  what  I've  always  meant  you 
should  have.  I'll  stick  to  my  bond,  and  you'll  go  to 
Washington,  sure  as  a  gun.  Hell  could  be  roofed 
and  paved  with  the  dirty  acts  I've  seen  done  in  my 
time,  but  you  ain't  goirfgVto  suffer  from  any  of  'em, 
and  don't  be  a  bit  scared.  The  Boss  himself  can 
fume  and  bluster,  if  he  likes,  but  even  he  won't  have 
the  cheek  to  try  and  bh  ny  stronger.  Sleep 

easy."     And  Heffernan  mo\ , «A  toward  the  door. 

Following  him,  Wentworth  now  said  with  some 
hesitation:  "By  the  way,  I  wanted  to  ask  you  if 
you  had  seen  Gordon  Ammidown  to-day." 

"  Gordon  Ammidown?  No.  I  don't  see  him  often. 
I  s'pose,  though,  you  know  he  married " 

"Yes,  I  do  know,"  said  the  young  man,  who  be- 


292  WOMEN  MUST  WEEP 

longed  to  what  are  termed  the  'Winthrop  Went- 
worths '  and  who  thought  his  friend  Gordon's  mis- 
alliance a  shocking  one.  "He  married  a  niece  of 
yours,  I  believe  .  .  Ah,  yes  .  .  .  Well,  Mr.  Heffernan, 
Gordon  called  on  me  this  morning  at  my  office.  He 
said  that  he  wanted  to  have  a  talk  with  you,  and 
that  he  thought  he'd  look  you  up  in  one  of  your 
saloons.  I  advised  him  not  to  do  so." 

A  fall  of  the  voice  and  a  meaning  look  told  more 
than  the  speaker  really  said. 

"  He  wasn't  off  again,  was  he?  "  queried  Heffernan 
sharply. 

"  Yes,  I'm  afraid  so.  That  is,  he  was  beginning  to 
get '  off,'  as  you  phrase  it." 

"  Too  bad !  .  .  God  help  his  young  wife !  " 

Annette  was  meanwhile  beset  by  a  sickening  fear. 
She  had  noticed  the  new  change  in  Gordon,  but  had 
dreaded  to  speak  of  it  either  to  her  mother-in-law  or 
Florence.  Had  they  noticed,  too,  she  kept  asking 
herself  all  through  that  day,  and  were  they,  no  less 
than  she,  dealing  in  merciful  silence  ? 

When  dinner-time  came  the  three  ladies  of  the 
house  sat  down  at  table  alone.  To-morrow's  elec- 
tion had  detained  Simeon  Ammidown  down  at  the 
office  of  The  Monitor,  and  his  wife  announced  this 
fact  soon  after  she  had  entered  the  dining-room. 
"But  Gordon  is  home?"  she  at  once  questioningly 
added,  with  a  glance  first  at  her  son's  empty  chair 
and  then  straight  into  the  face  of  Annette. 

Immediately  Florence's  glance  followed  her  moth- 
er's. Annette  felt  her  own  color  alter  as  she  realized, 
in  an  instant,  that  neither  of  her  companions  had 
guessed  the  truth. 

It  flashed  through  her  mind:     "How  strange!— 


WOMEN  MUST  WEEP  293 

why  is  it?— Oh,  they've  not  seen  enough  of  him— He 
did  not  really  show  it  till  he  came  home  rather  late 
last  night."  And  quite  promptly,  after  this  hurried 
self-communion,  she  said: 

"No,  Gordon's  away,  too.  I  suppose  he  must  be 
detained  for  the  same  reason  that  his  father  is.  Don't 
you  think  so?" 

She  tried  to  make  her  last  sentence  a  careless  one, 
and  addressed  it,  in  placid  interrogative,  equally  to 
Mrs.  Ammidown  and  Florence.  Neither  showed  a 
shadow  of  suspicion. 

"  Oh,  yes,  no  doubt,"  said  her  mother-in-law. 

"Yes,  most  probably,"  abetted  Florence. 

But  Annette  secretly  knew,  secretly  felt.  When 
dinner  was  over  and  she  had  got  up  into  her  own  room, 
she  gave  way  to  a  burst  of  anxious  tears.  Presently 
Florence  knocked  at  her  door.  They  were  great 
friends,  now,  and  whenever  Florence  aired  her  "socie- 
ty "  craze  Annette  was  always  responsive  in  the  com- 
mingled sense  of  sympathy  and  light  ridicule. 

"You  somehow  didn't  seem  yourself  at  dinner," 
began  Florence.  "  Mamma  noticed  it,  too.  Are  you 
worried  about  Gordon?" 

"Oh,  no,"  returned  Annette.  Then  she  added,  a 
little  more  tremulously  than  she  wished  or  perhaps 
knew:  "And  you  didn't  either,  did  you,  Florence?" 

"No,"  said  Florence. 

"Did  .  .  your  mother?" 

"Why,  no  ...  Annette!" 

"Well." 

"Are  you  nervous?  .  .  Really  nervous?" 

"Not  at  all." 

This  was  said  so  composedly  that  it  quite  dis- 
armed Florence.  Her  mind  was  averse  just  then  to 


294  WOMEN  MUST  WEEP 


concerning  itself  with  the  subject  of  her  brother's 
possible  downfall,  dearly  as  she  loved  him. 

"I  wanted  to  tell  you,  Annette,"  Florence  now  be- 
gan, with  a  palpable  blush,  "that  Yandewater 
Poughkeepsie  almost  proposed  to  me,  this  afternoon, 
at  those  amateur  theatricals  in  the  Berkeley  Lyceum." 

"Yes?"  Annette  replied,  with  an  effort  to  seem 
interested.  "  Do  tell  me  all  that  happened." 

Florence  went  through  a  little  narrative  of  dainty 
trivialities,  and  at  its  end  her  sister-in-law  said: 

"  Well,  it  certainly  looks  very  much  as  if  he  -wanted 
you  to  marry  him."  (She  had  heard  hardly  more 
than  half  of  the  halcyon  little  history.)  "And  .  .  isn't 
he  a  great  swell,  this  Vanderdexter  Schenectad}^, 
Florence?" 

"  Vanderdexter  Schenectady!"  cried  Florence,  aghast 
at  the  irreverent  misnomer.  "  Oh,  Annette,  how  can 
3Tou !  I — I've  been  talking  to  you  of  Vandewater 
Poughkeepsie,  if  you  please!" 

"  Oh,  yes;  so  you  have,"  hastened  Annette.  "  Please 
forgive  me  ...  But  it  will  be  a  great  match  for  a  girl, 
won't  it,  Florence?" 

"They  say  he's  got  half  a  million,"  confessed  Flor- 
ence, with  an  air.  "And  then,  of  course,  he  has  his 
name.  I  might  do  worse.  And  if  I  did  marry  him 
how  I  could  lord  it  over  some  of  the  girls  I  know  a 
little  and  others  I  know  only  by  sight.  As  for  Susie 
Van  Arsdale,  why,  she'll  just  be  green  with  envy  for 
weeks!" 

"But,  Florence,"  now  urged  Annette,  shaking  her 
head  with  tender  solemnity,  "marriage  means  more, 
I  hope,  than  making  a  Susie  Van  Arsdale  turn  green. 
The  only  point,  to  my  thinking,  is  this,  dear:  Do  you 
love  Mr.  Poughkeepsie?" 


WOMEN  MUST  WEEP  295 

Florence  shrugged  her  shoulders.  "I  love— the  idea 
of  being  Mrs.  Poughkeepsie,"  she  muttered. 

"  But  that  is  so  little  in  the  long  run." 

"So  little?"  trilled  Florence,  with  a  pert,  rebellious 
smile.  "Oh,  is  it?  ...  Now,  look  here,  Annette,"  she 
went  on, "  you'  ve  been  married  quite  an  age.  Have  you 
found  this  love  you  talk  of  so  glibly,  all-satisfying?" 

"Have  I?"  broke  from  Annette.  "Oh,  Florence, 
yes!  Yes  a  thousand  times!"  Then  she  thought  of 
the  potential  woe  that  might  be  waiting  her,  and 
this  remembrance  clouded  her  face.  "No  married 
woman's  life  is  entirely  happy,  I  allow,  but  unless 
love  lights  it  and  warms  it,  a  woman  might  far  bet- 
ter go  to  her  grave  unwedded!" 

"My  dear  Annette,"  exclaimed  Florence,  taking 
her  hand,  "you're  charming,  and  we  should  all  belike 
you;  but  unfortunately  we  are  not."  The  way  in 
which  Florence  pronounced  that  "we"  was  (despite 
the  plain  sincerity  of  her  last  little  caress)  deliciously 
affected.  No  sophisticated  matron  of  her  beloved 
Tour  Hundred  could  have  thrown  over  it  a  more 
mundane  air  of  fatigue  and  disillusion.  "  Now,  there 
are  your  two  sisters,"  she  pursued.  "  They  evidently 
don't  put  love  on  half  as  high  a  throne  as  you  do." 

"  They  never  put  it  on  any  throne  at  all,"  said  An- 
nette, bitterly,  "or,  if  they  did,  they've  dethroned  it 
now  with  a  vengeance!" 

"  And  you  think  them  wrong  in  the  courses  they've 
taken?" 

"Yes,  Florence;  since  you've  asked  me  the  point- 
blank  question,  I  do  think  them  wrong." 

"But  always  before,  Annette,  you've  seemed  to  be 
defending  them." 

"  Oh,  no  doubt.    And  yet  inwardly,  Florence,  I've 


296  WOMEN  MUST  WEEP 

known  them,  felt  them,  to  be  all  wrong,  all 
wrong."  .  .  . 

Annette  and  Florence  presently  went  downstairs 
together,  and  after  a  little  while  Simeon  Ammidown 
came  home.  He  had  dined  down  town.  He  looked  a 
little  tired,  but  not  unhealthily  so,  and  after  certain 
hopeful  expressions  about  the  election  on  the  follow- 
ing day,  and  certain  political  allusions  which  none  of 
the  three  women  who  heard  him  understood  in  the 
least  (so  prevalent  throughout  the  womenhood  of 
America  are  ignorance  and  indifference  concerning 
the  government  of  their  country)  he  retired  to  his 
library.  His  wife  went  with  him,  and  when  they  had 
both  disappeared  Annette  said,  in  timid  semi-tone 
to  Florence:  "He  didn't  even  mention  Gordon,  did 
he?" 

"No,"  was  the  reply.  "  Perhaps  he  thought  Gordon 
had  got  home  hours  ago."  A  worried  look  now 
crossed  Florence's  face,  but  a  ring  at  the  front  door- 
bell soon  chased  it  away,  for  she  was  expecting  Mr. 
Poughkeepsie,  who  had  promised  to  bring  with  him 
the  new  and  famous  leader  of  cotillons,  Mr.  Lexing- 
ton Madison.  If  Florence  could  not  shine  herself  at 
Patriarchs'  and  Assemblies,  there  was  comfort  to 
her  in  knowing  that  she  saw  and  held  converse,  now 
and  then,  with  some  of  the  mighty  spirits  who 
reigned  over  such  festivals. 

It  proved  really  to  be  Air.  Poughkeepsie  and  his 
friend.  Annette  slipped  from  the  drawing  rooms  by 
a  back  door  just  as  they  were  entering  in  all  the  pale 
splendor  of  prodigal  shirt-bosoms  and  precipitous 
collars.  Passing  the  library  upstairs,  she  heard  Mr. 
and  Mrs.  Ammidown's  voice  as  they  talked  together. 
She  wondered  if  they  were  talking  of  him. 


WOMEN  MUST  WEEP  297 

Once  within  one  of  her  own  rooms,  she  gave  way  to 
another  fit  of  crying.  Then  she  forcibly  calmed  her- 
self and  sat  down  with  a  book.  The  book  was  an 
extremely  keen  and  just  attack  upon  corruption  in 
New  York  politics,  which  Gordon  had  asked  her  to 
read  and  study  several  days  ago.  She  had  already 
read  about  ten  pages  of  it,  and  considered  the  lan- 
guage very  pithy  and  effective ;  but  to  save  her  life 
she  could  not  keep  in  her  mind  any  sort  of  distinct 
idea  as  to  the  assailants  and, the  assailed,  the  sinners 
and  the  sinned-against.  She  had  told  Gordon  this, 
and  he  had  laughed  at  her  shocking  ignorance  in  a 
fondly  indulgent  way,  afterward  proceeding  to  explain 
just  \vhat  the  momentous  wrong  was  and  just  who 
were  the  blamable  aggressors.  All  this  had  seemed 
quite  clear  for  a  little  while,  but  later,  when  she  had 
taken  up  the  book  again,  her  old  bewilderments  "had 
returned.  Now  they  enveloped  her  like  a  fog  one  can 
almost  cut  \vith  a  knife.  She  incessantly  found  her- 
self listening  for  his  step,  and  at  last  she  suddenly  rose, 
certain  that  she  heard  it  in  the  outer  hall  and  that  it 
was  fatally  unsteady. 

She  was  right.  He  came  into  the  room,  and  when 
she  asked  him  if  anyone  had  seen  him  downstairs  he 
answered  in  the  negative,  and  answered  with  enough 
clearness  to  make  her  feel  sure  he  had  not  been  seen 
by  anyone.  Then,  with  nerves  braced  determinedly 
and  eyes  full  of  hard,  cold  glitters,  she  helped  him  to 
a  lounge,  on  which  he  fell  in  piteous  collapse.  After 
that  she  went  into  the  adjoining  bed-room  and  took 
off  her  g  own;  replacing  it  with  a  wrapper.  I^ater  she 
stole  back  to  him  and  bathed  his  hot  head  from  a 
bottle  of  bay-rum,  blowing  with  her  breath  against 
the  moist  places  that  she  made  on  his  brows  and 


WOMEN  MUST  WEEP 


temples.  His  sleep  grew  less  restless,  and  she  disposed 
his  limbs  more  comfortably  on  the  lounge.  Finally 
she  stooped  and  kissed  him.  Her  heart  seemed  to  her 
as  if  it  would  burst  with  grief.  But  Gordon's  madness 
only  bound  her  closer  to  him.  She  thought  of  her 
sisters.  "What  would  Eunice  do  if  placed  as  I'm 
placed?  "  she  asked  herself;  "  What  would  Dora  do?" 
She  fancied  she  was  certain  that  they  would  not  have 
treated  him  as  she  had  done,  would  not  have  kissed 
him  like  that,  would  not  have  been  drawn  closer  to 
him  by  his  wretched  folly. 

Soon  a  feeling  came  over  her  that  she  might  shield 
him  from  his  mother's,  from  Florence's,  perhaps  even 
from  his  father's  discovery  of  the  real  truth.  If  he 
awakened  in  an  hour  or  two— possibly  in  a  longer 
time  than  that— with  brain  and  speech  rid  of  the 
hateful  clog  which  now  hung  upon  them,  she  could 
argue  with  him,  supplicate  him,  rouse  in  him  the 
manful  will  and  purpose  that  she  so  well  knew  were 
his  sane  and  actual  traits.  Then  to-morrow  this 
horrible  cloud  might  pass  from  both  their  lives.  Well, 
at  least  she  \vould  make  the  effort.  And  acting  on 
her  new,  pious  resolve,  she  locked  the  door  of  the 
room  in  which  Gordon  lay.  Then,  going  into  the 
bedroom,  she  turned  down  its  gas  quite  low,  and 
sinking  into  an  arm-chair,  waited  amid  the  dreamy 
dusk  that  she  had  wrought. 

A  long  time  passed.  Her  thoughts  busied  themselves 
with  the  nature,  the  character  of  this  man  whom 
she  had  married.  What  elevation,  what  stimulant 
there  had  been  for  her  in*  his  companionship!  How 
refining  and  how  freshening  had  proved  his  guidances 
and  tuitions!  Looking  back  through  a  vista  of 
months  that  stretched  from  now  to  the  hour  of  her 


WOMEN  MUST  WEEP  299 

bridal  promise,  she  seemed  like  one  who  plunges  his 
gaze  through  the  blent  shade  and  shine  of  a  rich- 
fruited  arbor.  And  yet  there  was  nothing  autumnal 
about  these  memories;  they  were  indeed  vernal  as 
apple-blossoms  themselves.  To  realize  the  existence 
of  a  certain  hideous  ill  had,  it  is  true,  soiled  the  sweet 
picture  with  a  dark  blot  of  pain.  But,  after  all,  did 
not  happiness  glow  the  brighter  by  contrast  with 
the  gloom  of  this  grief?  Then,  too,  although  brutal- 
izing enough  when  it  fell,  the  curse  by  which  he  was 
visited  had  power  over  him  simply  in  the  way  of  a 
disease;  the  appetite  it  engendered  was  no  more  a 
part  of  him,  of  her  Gordon,  than  would  have  been 
the  pangs  of  a  head-ache,  the  delirium  of  a  fever. 
How  could  any  man  of  his  taste  and  cultivation  be  in- 
nately coarse?  Why,  just  to  breathe  the  same  air  with 
him  had  meant  expansion,  emancipation,  both  mental 
and  moral.  Ah!  if  in  some  way,  by  giving  her  body, 
her  blood,  a  decade  from  the  years  of  her  future  life, 
she  could  stand  between  him  and  the  world's  knowl- 
edge of  his  new  shame!  How  gladly  would  she 
shield  him,  how  slight  a  service  would  she  hold  such 
an  act!  For  hers  was  that  inalienable  wifely  devo- 
tion which  men  admire,  but  which  women  of  a 
certain,  hardy  spiritual  make  too  often  sneer  at  as 
feeble  and  tame. 

After  a  certain  interval  a  knock  sounded  at  the 
door  of  the  sitting-room,  just  as  Annette  had  ex- 
pected. She  waited  a  few  moments,  and  the  knock 
sounded  again.  Then  she  opened  the  door  of  the  bed- 
room a  little  way,  and,  thrusting  her  head  out,  asked 
mildly  but  a  trifle  querulously: 

"Who's  there?" 

"It's  I,"  said  Mrs*  Ammidown. 


300  WOMEN  MUST  WEEP 

Annette  feigned  an  embarassed  laugh.  "Oh,  I'm 
so  sorry,"  she  said.  "I— I'm  just  going  to  bed,  and 
Gordon,  you  know,  has  gone." 

"Gordon's  home,  then?"  broke  from  Mrs.  Ammi- 
down,  while  Annette  saw  a  flash  of  joy  on  the  speak- 
er's face. 

"  Oh,  yes.  He  got  home  some  time  ago.  He  was 
very  tired,  and  dined  somewhere  down  town." 

"Really,  Annette?"  came  the  answer,  and  with  it 

a  look  of  perplexity  as  well.  "His  father  said -But 

never  mind.  I'm  so  glad  he's  home.  Excuse  me,  dear, 
for  disturbing  you." 

"Oh,"  laughed  Annette,  "you  haven't  disturbed  me 
at  all.  And  you'll  excuse  me,  of  course,  will  you  not." 

"Yes,  dear,  yes.  .    Good  night." 

"Good  night  .  .  and  pleasant  dreams  to  you, 
mamma." 

"To  you  also,  my  dear  child,"  replied  Mrs.  Ammi- 
down.  .  . 

When  the  door  was  shut  and  locked,  Annette  reeled 
from  it  in  agitation.  "Is  my  lie  not  justified,"  she 
asked  herself,  "even  if  it  only  gives  her  a  few  hours  of 
peaceful  sleep?" 

But  this  gentle  spirit,  in  its  complete  honesty  and 
purity,  was  nevertheless  chilled  and  distressed  by  its 
own  falsehood.  She  sank  down  beside  her  bed  and 
buried  her  face  for  quite  a  while.  Perhaps  before  she 
rose  a  prayer  of  some  sort  had  mutely  floated  from 
her  stirless  lips.  .  .  Dreading  that  Florence  would  come 
as  her  mother  had  done,  she  did  not  cease  to  feel  such 
a  visit  probable  until  it  was  nearly  midnight.  Then, 
convinced  that  Florence  and  Mrs.  Ammidown  had 
met,  she  grew  more  calm.  Several  times  she  had 
already  stolen  into  the  next  room  and  found  that 


WOMEN  MUST  WEEP  301 


Gordon  still  slept.  But  at  length,  considerably  past 
midnight,  she  heard  his  voice. 

"Annette,"  it  called. 

She  hurried  to  him.  He  was  sitting  upright  on  the 
lounge.  All  its  disfeaturing  flush  had  now  left  his 
face.  He  was  excessively  pale,  and  his  look  had  a 
piteous  naturalness,  as  though  returned  reason  had 
brought  with  it  an  untold  self-contempt. 

Annette  sank  on  the  lounge  at  his  side.  "  My  dear 
Gordon,"  she  said,  with  infinite  tenderness,  "I'm  so 
glad  you're  better!" 


XXII 

For  a  moment  he  searched  her  face  with  his  dull, 
bloodshot  eyes. 

"  My  God,"  he  murmured,  "  was  there  ever  so  sweet 
a  wife  as  you  are  ? — No,  you  must  not !  "  and  he  rose 
from  the  lounge  as  she  tried  to  throw  her  arms  about 
him.  "I — I  don't  deserve  it.  I'm  not  fit  for  it ! " 

Soon  he  dropped  into  a  chair  with  a  great  forlorn 
sigh.  But  as  he  did  so  she  glided  near  him  and  stood, 
quite  quietly,  within  so  slight  a  distance  that  he  could 
have  put  forth  a  hand  and  touched  her  dress. 

His  mind  was  clear  enough,  but  his  nerves  were  un- 
strung, and  a  fierce  remorse  racked  his  soul,  while  a 
physical  craving  made  that  remorse  all  the  harder  to 
endure. 

"What  time  is  it?  "  he  asked  of  her,  with  tones  dog- 
ged  and  sullen. 

She  told  him  the  hour,  and  added :  "  You  need  other 
rest  than  you've  had,  Gordon.  Won't  you  take  it  ? 
Let  me  loosen  your  neck-tie.  .  ." 

"No."  He  waved  her  away,  though  not  rudely. 
Dropping  his  head  a  little,  he  went  on:  "Now  yo u 
see  what  a  frightful  mistake  you've  made." 

"Mistake?" 


WOMEN  MUST  WEEP  303 

"Yes— in  marrying  me."  He  lifted  his  head  and 
laughed  bleakly.  "  Poor  girl,  poor  girl !  It  wasn't 
even  a  mistake.  It  was  a  frightful  deception." 

"  Never  mind  that,  Gordon." 

"  Oh,  you're  saintly,  about  it — I  know!  But  if  ever 
a  girl  was  made  a  victim  of,  it  was  you." 

"  I  don't  feel  it  that  way,"  she  exclaimed.  And  then 
she  sank  down  on  her  knees  before  him.  "  If  it  were 
all  to  do  over  again,  Gordon,  and  if  I  knew,  as  I  did 
not  know  when  I  married  you,  I— I'd  not  hesitate  a 
single  second!" 

He  hid  his  face  in  his  hands  for  a  slight  \vhile.  "Oh, 
I'd  rather  have  you  pitch  into  me,  take  me  to  task !" 
he  cried  drearily.  Then  he  uncovered  his  face  and 
looked  down  at  her  \vith  a  wildness  that  gave  her  a 
little  inward  thrill  of  fear.  "You  manage  to  put 
yourself  so  terribty  in  the  right, and— and  to  keep  there. 
You  make  me  feel  like  such  a  villain,  such  a  monster!" 

"  You're  neither  one  nor  the  other,  Gordon,"  she  pro- 
tested sweetly.  "  You're  merely  somebody  who  is  in 
great  trouble  and  who  needs  help,  sympathy,  love. 
Let  me  give  you  all  three."  Her  hand  stole  into  his, 
now,  and  he  pressed  it  almost  fiercely  between  his 
feverish  fingers.  "  But  you  must  help  yourself,  too," 
she  \vent  on.  "By  to-morrow,  when  temptation 
comes  again,  you  must  clinch  your  teeth  and  crush  it 
down.  Will  you?  Oh,  answer  'yes,'  and  I'll — I'll  feel, 
dear,  as  if  Heaven  had  opened .  .  .  Listen,  now,  Gordon, 
I've  got  it  all  clear  in  my  head.  You  just  leave  ever\T- 
thing  to  me.  To-morrow  morning,  I'll  go  out  with 
you,  exactly  as  I've  done  a  good  many  times  before. 
Nobody  need  suspect  a  thing.  But  instead  of  only 
going  a  little  way  with  you  I'll  keep  near  you  the 
whole  day  long.  They'll  think  I've  gone  to  my  sisters. 


304  WOMEN  MUST  WEEP 

We  can  look  in  at  a  matinee ;  or  we  can  take  the  train 
out  into  the  country  somewhere,  if  it's  pleasant 
weather.". 

He  caught  both  her  hands,  crushing  them  excitedly 
and  yet  tenderly  in  either  of  his  own. 

"  You're  so  good — so  good !  " 

"And  now  you'll  get  some  rest,  won't  you,  Gordon?" 

"Rest!  I've  been  asleep  an.  age." 

"No,  you  haven't.  .  Oh, Gordon,  Irecollect.  There's 
some  of  that  sleeping  medicine  they  gave  you  when 
you — that  is,  it  was  left  over,  you  know,  from  your 
last  illness.  Let  me  get  it  and  give  you  some  now.  I 
remember  the  dose  perfectly.  It  will  bring  you  a  few 
more  hours  of  sleep,  and  then  to-morrow  we'll  begin 
—you  and  I  together,  dear— the  struggle  that's  going 
to  end  in  victory ! " 

Her  eyes  were  burning  into  his  own,  and  her  pale, 
pensive,  uplifted  face  gave  to  those  eyes  a  starrier 
sweetness  than  he  had  ever  yet  seen  in  them.  While  she 
knelt  there  at  his  feet,  with  her  shoulders  drawn  to- 
gether in  that  touching  way  women  have  when  they 
supplicate,  Gordon  felt  like  even  a  more  trying  person 
than  he  really  was.  He  stooped  down  and  passionately 
kissed  her,  twice,  thrice.  Then  he  fell  back  in  his  chair, 
and  raised  both  hands,  waving  them  before  his  face  in  a 
manner  that  expressed  repentance,  self-disgust  and 
acquiescense.  all  combined.  At  least,  Annette  so  in- 
terpreted the  swift  pantomime,  and  no  doubt  with 
an  intelligence  that  would  alone  be  born  of  a  love 
like  her  own. 

"I'll  get  it  then,"  she  said,  and  sprang  lightly  to 
her  feet.  He  nodded  several  times  very  quickly,  and 
then  faltered:  "Oh,  my  dear  wife,  how  good,  how 
perfect  you  are!" 


WOMEN  MUST  WEEP  305 

"  Nonsense!"  she  shot  out,  with  a  real  gladness  and 
a  sudden  deep-drawn  breath,  as  of  intense  relief. 
"There!  Wait  a  minute.  I'll  get  the  medicine;  I'll 
bring  it  yo'i  here.  You  needn't  stir;  I'll  be  back  in 
no  time!" 

And  then  she  darted  into  the  next  room.  Gordon 
felt  acutely  her  exquisite  trust  in  his  fealty.  He  sat 
there  alone  for  several  seconds,  and  in  this  brief  in- 
terval a  tremendous  change  beset  him.  It  was 
wrought,  this  change,  by  the  craving  of  bodily  weak- 
ness and  disarray.  It  shrouded  his  moral  faculties 
with  the  suddenness  of  a  mist  that  creeps  over  a 
coast,  wrapping  with  fleet  and  intangible  tissues 
cliff  and  sand- 

This  craving  caught  him  with  ruffian  clutch  and 
mastered  him.  Principle,  truth,  honor,  vanished. 
The  meaning  of  life  became  an  animalism.  .  .  When, 
in  a  few  more  minutes,  Annette  returned  to  the  room 
where  she  had  left  him,  she  found  him  gone.  Hurry- 
ing outside  into  the  hall,  she  leaned  over  the  banisters. 
All  was  dark  in  the  lower  part  of  the  house,  and  very 
still.  But  she  soon  heard  the  clanging  sound  of  a 
closed  door,  far  below.  She  understood  what  the 
sound  meant.  Faint  though  it  was,  it  smote  her  ears 
like  a  knell.  .  . 

All  the  next  day  was  an  agony.  Gordon  did  not 
return,  and  she  mourned  and  trembled  for  him  with 
his  mother  and  Florence.  She  had  intended  to  visit  her 
sisters  this  day,  but  in  not  doing  so  she  escaped,  after 
all,  the  annoyance  of  meeting  Mrs.  Giebelhouse. 

Annoyance  the  visit  of  this  lady  certainly  proved, 
both  to  Eunice  and  Dora.  She  came  with  the  contu- 
macious and  haggard  little  Lizzie,  and  at  once  began 
to  express  her  "views"  concerning  her  kinswomen's 
recent  course  of  action. 


306  WOMEN  MUbT  WEEP 

"Well,  girls,  you've  gone  and  done  it,"  she  said, 
"and  I  do  hope  you  aint  going  to  repent  it." 

"There  was  nothing  else  to  be  done,"  said  Eunice. 

"Nothing  else,"  approved  Dora. 

"Oh,  of  course,  from  your  point  o'  view."  nodded 
and  smirked  Mrs.  Giebelhouse.  "But  you  might  'a' 
been  less  .  ,  hem  .  .  less  hasty." 

"Perhaps  we  might,"  muttered  Eunice. 

"Might  isn't  the  word,"  said  Dora,    "We  had  to." 

Mrs.  Giebelhouse  struck  Lizzie  a  sharp  blow  on  the 
ear  for  having  begun  to  braid  the  fringes  of  the  table- 
cloth near  her  and  occasionally  spit  on  them  to  in- 
sure a  more  facile  method  of  personal  employment. 

Lizzie  at  once  shrieked  and  held  her  breath.  This 
transport  ended  in  a  low  \vail,  which  continued  un- 
til her  mother,  with  a  touch  of  real  solicitude,  in- 
quired: 

"Well,  what's  the  matter,  anyhow.  Is  it  that 
tooth?" 

"Yes,"  moaned  Lizzie,  with  a  hand  in  her  mouth, 
and  with  the  effect  of  a  thumb  and  forefinger  grasp- 
ing a  certain  segment  of  gum.  "It  is  the  tooth, 
mommer.  It  aches  like  sixty." 

"She  won't  have  it  out,"  explained  Mrs.  Giebel- 
house to  her  relatives.  "She  carries  on  so  when  I 
even  speak  of  a  dentist  that  I  haven't  got  the  heart 
to  take  her  to  one." 

"I  won't  go  to  the  dentist!  I  won't,  I  won't!" 
fumed  Lizzie,  stamping  her  foot. 

"Hold  your  tongue,  you  hussy,"  cried  her  mother. 
"You'll  go  where  you're  sent." 

"No  I  won't!  No  I  won't,"  screamed  Lizzie.  And 
then  her  mother  gave  her  another  blow,  at  which  the 
child's  wails  became  hysteric.  Eunice,  feeling  that 
she  could  stand  it  no  longer,  now  burst  forth: 


WOMEN  MUST  WEEP  307 

"  Oh,  for  Heaven's  sake,  Aunt  Ida,  do  manage  that 
child  better!" 

Mrs.  Giebelhouse  gave  a  great  start,  and  her  mouth 
grew  more  acid.  She  stared  at  Eunice,  irately,  and 
as  she  did  so,  Dora  exclaimed: 

"  Eunice  is  right.  You  spoil  Lizzie.  The  child  will 
grow  up  to  be  a  perfect  nuisance,  if  you're  not  care- 
ful." 

Mrs.  Giebelhouse's  stare  became  a  glare.  Mean- 
while Lizzie's  lamentations  decreased.  The  child  had 
detected  something  new  and  peculiar  in  the  social  at- 
mosphere. It  interested  her  to  observe  what  that 
something  was,  or  into  what  it  would  develop,  and 
she  accordingly  restrained  her  screeches  for  the  pur- 
pose of  listening. 

"  Dora  Trask,"  shot  out  Mrs.  Giebelhouse,  "you " 

"Dora  Kinnicutt,  if  you  please,  Aunt  Ida,"  came 
the  interruption. 

.  "Oh,  yes,"  was  Mrs.  Giebelhouse's  bitter  reply. 
"  Of  course  it  is  Dora  Kinnicutt,  though  ladies  that 
desert  their  husbands  oughtn't  to  get  mad  for  having 
their  marriages  forgotten." 

Eunice  bristled  at  this,  and  looked  as  though  she1 
meant  to  fire  her  big  guns.     "Aunt  Ida,"  she  began, 
'I  don't  think  it's  good  taste  of  you  to  sneer  at  Dora 
and  me  in  our  misfortune." 

"Misfortune!"  sneered  Mrs.  Giebelhouse,  in  her 
worst  temper.  "  I  guess  there  might  be  another  way 
of  talking  on  that  point." 

"What  do  you  mean?"  asked  Dora  quite  angrily. 
"Do  you  mean,  Aunt  Ida,  that  Eunice  and  I  were  in 
the  wrong?  If  you  do  think  this,  you  might  have 
said  so  in  the  first  place." 

"I  don't  say  all  the  ugly  things  I  think,"  Mrs. 
Giebelhouse  almost  snarled. 


308  WOMEN  MUST  WEEP 

"Oh,  don't  you!"  said  Dora.  "I'd  always  sup- 
posed you  never  missed  a  chance  of  being  disagree- 
able." 

"Is  that  so?"  snapped  Mrs.  Giebelhouse,  with 
great  tartness.  "  Mercy,  Dora,  it's  no  wonder  you 
couldn't  get  on  as  a  married  woman !" 

' '  Perhaps  if  Uncle  Conrad  had  been  a  man  of  more 
character  than  he  is,"  retorted  Dora,  "you  wouldn't 
have  got  on  much  better  than  I  did." 

"Hush,  Dora,"  reproved  Eunice,  though  with  a 
very  hostile  look  at  her  aunt. 

"I  won't  hush,"  rebelled  Dora.  "Aunt  Ida  is  al- 
ways sajdng  horrid  things  to  people.  She's  no  right 
to  come  here  and  taunt  us  in  our  trouble." 

"Taunt  you!"  shouted  Mrs.  Giebelhouse,  rising. 
"As  if  I  had!" 

"Of  course  you  have,"  said  Eunice  firmly,  rising 
also. 

Dora  now  sprang  from  her  chair,  with  trembling 
demeanor.  "  Why,  you've  never  treated  us  the  least 
bit  nicely,  and  you  know  it.  You've  never  been  good 
or  kind.  I — I  don't  believe  you  can  be!  I  never  saw 
such  an  ill-natured  person  as  you  are.  You  just  seem 
to  love  sneers  and  slurs.  They're  meat  and  drink  to 
you." 

"And — and  how  about  yourself?"  panted  Mrs. 
Giebelhouse.  "I— I'll  tell  your  Uncle  Conrad  how 
you've  insulted  him  /" 

"  She  hasn't  insulted  him,"  struck  up  Eunice.  "  You 
do  bully  him,  Aunt  Ida,  as  you  bully  everybody.  Yes, 
it's  true.  You  needn't  scowl  and  look  fierce.  Dora 
and  I  are  not  under  the  slightest  debt  to  you.  And 
anyway,  I  began  this  quarrel.  I  couldn't  stand  your 
behavior  to  that  child.  It's  awfully  bad  taste  for 


WOMEN  MUST  WEEP  309 

you  to  take  her  about  to  places  and  box  her  ears  ill 
public  as  you  do.  But  you're  always  boxing  every- 
body's ears,  more  or  less.  You — you  haven't  an 
amiable  hair  in  your  head;  do  you  know  that?" 

Eunice  was  very  angry,  and  yet  she  showed  the 
grace  of  instant  repentance  as  she  saw  her  guest's 
indignant  stiffening  of  the  body  and  somewhat  dra- 
matic shudder.  Dora  began  to  speak,  now,  but 
Eunice  silenced  her  by  a  gesture  and  a  forcible  though 
gentle  backward  push.  At  this  moment,  however, 
Lizzie,  with  tongue  thrust  out  and  an  antic  malevo- 
lence in  her  sallow  little  face,  darted  forward. 

"You  two  can  sass  my  mother  all  }TOU  please," 
cried  the  child.  "But  who  cares  for  you  two,  any- 
how? Pa  says  you  don't  amount  to  much,  and  pa 
knows.  He  says  you  ain't  anything  but  a  pair  o' 
vixens,  fighting  with  your  husbands  and  kicking  'em 
out  o'  doors — " 

"Lizzie!"  screeched  Mrs.  Giebelhouse.  But. though 
she  caught  the  child  furiously  by  one  of  her  frail  little 
arms,  Dora  had  already  put  both  her  own  arms 
round  the  tiny  body  and  sank  on  her  knees  at 
Lizzie's  feet.  And  as  she  did  this,  Dora's  eyes  were 
streaming  with  tears. 

"Oh,  Lizzie,"  she  cried,  "little, Lizzie  Giebelhouse, 
you  don't  know  how  you  hurt  me  to  the  heart !  But 
it  isn't  your  fault,  and  I  forgive  you.  I  wish  you  had 
a  better  mother  than  you've  got,  and  some  day, 
poor  little  creature,  you  may  remember  that  I  told 
you  so." 

This  was  to  Lizzie's  mother  a  crowning  insolence. 
She  pulled  the  child  from  Dora's  embrace  and  swept 
out  of  the  room,  soon  afterward  quitting  the  house. 
Still  weeping,  Dora  staggered  to  her  feet,  and  as  she 


310  WOMEN  MUST  WEEP 

did  so  Eunice  rushed  upon  her  in  fine  and  splendid 
wrath. 

" How— how  scandalous  of  you,  Dora!"  came  the 
reproving  outburst.  And  then  Eunice  began  to  scold 
with  magnificent  vehemence. 

They  had  it  out  together,  hard  and  hot.  Any  out- 
side observer  would  have  called  it  a  severe  wrangle. 
But  to  the  contestants  it  was  a  most  ordinary  species 
of  discussion.  Eunice  was  not  clearly  aware  why 
she  scolded  or  \vith  what  intent.  But  she  scolded 
vigorously,  nevertheless.  As  for  Dora,  she  accepted 
the  affair  in  the  most  matter-of-course  fashion.  Not 
that  her  attitude  was  at  all  a  meek  one.  She  hit 
back,  and  with  blows  that  told.  But  it  was  all  the 
most  usual  sort  of  occurrence  to  both  sisters.  They 
had  warred  with  one  another  like  this  almost  from 
infancy. 

"You  ought  to  be  ashamed  to  blame  me,"  Dora 
finally  declared.  "You  detest  her  just  as  much  as 
I  do.  You  know  she  was  in  the  wrong,  and  yet  you 
act  as  if  /were." 

"A  lady  should  always  be  a  lady  in  her  own 
house,"  pronounced  Eunice. 

"Oh,  indeed!  When  it  comes  to  a  pinch  I  guess 
I'm  a  good  deal  more  of  a  lady  than  you  are." 

"Dora,  how  dare  you?" 

"Oh,  pooh!    You  can't  sit  on  me." 

"I  haven't  tried." 

"  That's  not  true.    You're  trying  now." 

Soon  afterward  they  went  in  to  luncheon  together, 
and  before  they  left  the  table  their  conversation  had 
become  'completely  peaceable.  Dora  retained  agi- 
tated memories  of  her  aunt,  however,  and  said,  dur- 
ing the  meal,  that  she  never  wanted  to  see  her  again, 


WOMEN  MUST  WEEP  311 

"I'm  glad  Aunt  'Liza  wasn't  here,"  she  added, 
"though  we  expected  her  to-day,  didn't  we?  To 
think  of  the  difference  between  those  two !" 

Mrs.  Heffernan  had  really  intended  to  visit  her 
nieces  that  day.  She  longed  to  see  them  settled  in 
their  new-old  home,  and  the  depths  of  her  sympathy 
with  them  in  their  sad  semi-widowhood  were  pro- 
found beyond  \vords.  But  a  sombre  terror  held  sway 
over  her  with  respect  to  her  husband.  She  realized 
just  \vhat  peril  might  be  threatening  him  all  through 
the  day,  and  suffered  torments  of  anxiety  until  the 
early  evening  had  brought  him  back. 

"  Wentworth's  in,  without  a  doubt,"  were  almost 
his  first  words  to  her. 

"I'm  glad — very  glad,"  she  answered.  "But  you 
felt  sure  how  it  would  be,  didn't  you,  Andy?"  . 

"Oh,  yes." 

"And  there's  been  no  trouble  yet?" 

"Trouble,  'Liza?" 

"You  know  what  I  mean.  They  havn't  tried  to 
browbeat  you,  or  anything  like  that?" 

"Oh,  I've  had  some  cheeky  talk  to  put  up  with. 
But  it  all  blew  over.  Times  may  turn  out  a  little 
livelier  to-night;  but  I  don't  scare  very  easy,  as 
you're  aware  by  this  time." 

She  was  standing  at  the  side  of  the  chair  into  which 
he  had  thrown  himself,  and  she  now  let  her  hand  fall 
on  his  shoulder  and  rest  there. 

"Andy,  you  havn't  seen  him,  have  you,"  she  mur- 
mured. 

"Who?  Larry  McGonigle?" 

"Yes." 

"He  hasn't  turned  up,  and  I  guess  he  won't.  I 
heard  about  him.  I  heard  he  was  boiling  drunk  this 
afternoon  at  Connolly's." 


312  WOMEN  MUST  WEEP 

"  Connolly's  ?  "  came  her  alarmed  reply.  That's 
close  to  your  Third  avenue  place,  Andy,  isn't  it?" 

"Pretty  close — yes." 

"And  .  .  andhewas  there,  eh?  .  .  Well,  youaint  going 
out  again  to-night.  Say  you  won't,  now." 

He  looked  tip  at  her  in  wide-eyed  surprise.  "Not 
going  out  again  to-night,  'Liza?  Why,  you  remem- 
ber, woman,  don't  ye?" 

"Remember  what?" 

"To-night's  the  night.  Afterward  I'll  never  sell 
another  drop  o'  liquor  across  any  o'  my  bars.  I'm 
going  to  every  one  o'  the  four  places,  and  I'll  dis- 
charge the  bar  tender  at  each.  The  boys  that  aint 
on  '11  get  my  orders  not  to  open  shop  to-morrow, 
with  a  month's  wages  ahead,  same  as  the  others." 

"I  do  remember,  Andy,  and  it's  a  glorious  resolu- 
tion you've  made.  But  oh,  if  you'd  only  stay  in  to- 
night!" And  she  leaned  down  to  him  with  an  eager 
yearning  in  her  face.  "It  seems  to  me  that  there's 
danger  .  .  danger." 

"Why  any  more  this  night  than  another?"  he  said. 
"If  you  mean,  'Liza,  that  they  want  to  send  me  over 
to  Calvary,  to-morrow  or  next  day  is  as  good  a  time 
as  now." 

She  gave  a  little  shiver,  and  then  tried  to  smile  very 
persuasively. 

"  I — I  didn't  mean  anything  so  awful.  '  Of  course 
not!  But  it's  the  night  of  election-day,  and  that 
makes  so  much  difference  just  now.  Don't  tell  me  it 
doesn't,  Andy,  for  I  know  only  too  well.  Those 
avenues  are  just  perfect  holes  this  minute,  and  they'll 
stay  so  till  to-morrow  morning." 

But  she  failed  to  win  him  over.  Indeed  he  finally 
convinced  her  that  her  fears  were  almost  groundless 


WOMEN  MUST  WEEP  313 

and  that  however  savage  might  be  the  desperado 
element  he  had  roused,  a  wholesome  respect  for  his 
civic  and  official  standing  would  easily  shield  him 
from  any  foul  act  of  onslaught.  Then,  too,  he  had 
determined  weeks  ago  that  on  this  night  he  would 
take  the  first  fateful  and  significant  step.  And  she — 
had  she  not  urged  and  pleaded  \vith  him  that  this 
step  should  be  taken  ?  Was  it  not  more  because  of 
her  prayers  and  longings  than  for  any  other  reason 
that  he  had  resolved  to  rise  above  his  baser  self  and 
wash  from  his  soul  those  clinging  stains  ? 

He  put  his  arms  about  her  just  before  he  went 
away  that  night,  and  the  act  was  so  unusually  ten- 
der a  one  (in  spite  of  the  large  love  she  knew  he  had 
for  her)  that  it  almost  made  her  recoil  from  him  with 
affright.  .  . 

When  he  had  really  left  her,  this  feeling  increased, 
and  she  hurried  out  in  the  hall  after  him,  saying: 

"Andy,  you — you  won't  be  one  mite  laterthanyou 
can  help;  will  you,  now?" 

After  she  had  made  this  appeal  it  occurred  to  her 
that  such  pertinacity  might  offend  him,  and  she 
looked  for  a  frown  on  his  face,  rarely  as  any  word  or 
act  of  her  own  had  ever  seemed  to  displease  him.  But 
while  opening  the  hall  door  he  waved  one  of  his  big 
hajids  toward  her,  carelessly  and  yet  fondly,  at  the 
same  moment  smiling.  The  smile  somehow  dwelt 
with  her  for  a  good  while  after  he  had  gone,  making 
in  her  heart  a  little  star  of  cheer.  But  after  all,  like 
every  other  star,  it  shone  in  darkness. 

She  would  have  given  a  great  deal  to  know  him 
safe  at  home  that  night,  with  all  his  four  shops 
closed  and  the  first  move  in  the  fine,  brave  work, 
fairly  made.  And  she  would  have  given  a  great  deal 


314  WOMEN  MUST   WEEP 

more  to  know  him  as  one  who  had  outlived  the  spites 
and  hates  that  such  a  work  was  sure  to  engender, 
at  peace  equally  with  his  own  spirit  and  those  of  his 
fellow-men. 

Ah,  would  that  blessed  hour  ever  dawn  for  him? 
She  drew  quick  breaths,  poor  woman,  and  piteously 
trembled  when  she  thought  of  the  dubious  and  shad- 
owy interval  between  now  and  then ! 


XXIII 

In  succession  Heffernan  visited  each  of  his  saloons, 
and  confronted  each  bar-keeper  with  his  discharge 
and  his  payment  for  a  month  in  advance.  The  last 
place  that  he  entered  was  the  one  in  Third  avenue, 
nearest  his  home.  Hitherto  there  had  been  no  sign  of 
opposition  or  even  of  disturbance.  In  those  other 
establishments  there  were  a  few  men  drinking,  most 
of  whom  he  did  not  know.  The  bar- tenders  in  those 
taverns  had  received  from  their  co-workers  of  the 
daytime  a  decided  hint  of  what  would  occur  to  them 
to-night.  They  took  their  official  tidings  very  qui- 
etly, and  closed  the  shutters  unmurmuringly  \vith 
their  employer's  personal  help.  The  ctistomers  drifted 
away  in  the  most  obliging  style;  Heffernan  congratu- 
lating himself  that  he  should  be  able  to  get  to  his 
Third  avenue  place  at  the  comparatively  early  hour 
of  one.  Each  bar-tender,  it  is  true,  asked  certain 
questions.  But  they  were  respectfully  put,  and  the 
candid  answers  to  them  were  received  \vith  no  undue 
bursts  of  curiosity.  In  each  case  Heffernan  had 
simply  said  that  his  business  would  be  discontinued 
from  this  time  forward.  After  three  shops  had  been 
closed  with  a  clear  understanding  that  the  closing 


316          •  WOMEN  MUST  WEEP 

was  permanent,  he  had  a  grateful  sense  of  good 
treatment  from  circumstance,  accident,  \vhat  you 
will.  "And  I  only  hope,"  he  said  to  himself,  while 
starting  to  effect  his  fourth  and  last  visit,  "that 
things  '11  go  as  smooth  up  yonder  as  they've  done 
elsewhere,— though  I  guess  they  won't,  for  more  rea- 
sons than  one." 

His  augury  did  not  prove  untrue.  The  Third  ave- 
nue saloon  had  always  represented  him  much  more 
distinctively  as  a  liquor-dealer  than  those  other 
haunts  in  other  parts  of  the  town.  Here  had  shone 
a  visible  symbol  of  his  great  prosperity  and  success, 
with  its  really  tasteful  trappings  in  the  way  of  wood- 
work, chandeliers,  plate  glass  and  mirrors.  Here, 
too,  were  his  political  headquarters.  In  his  most 
conscienceless  days  he  had  held  here  vital  talks  with 
men  to  whom  his  nod  was  golden,  and  entered  into 
compacts  with  other  men  whose  services  could  swell 
his  viceregal  sway. 

As  he  now  passed  into  the  spacious  chamber  (hav- 
ing its  braveries  a  little  dimmed  at  this  late  hour, 
though  the  electric  burners  yet  glowed  with  a  good 
deaf  of  boldness  from  wall  and  ceiling)  he  swiftly  per- 
ceived that  a  new  and  perhaps  painful  experience 
waited  him.  Several  knots  of  men  stood  near  the 
bar,  all  apparently  his  active  patrons.  He  recognized 
a  number  of  them  as  former  acquaintances,  even 
friends.  He  bowed  to  three  or  four,  and  these  coolly 
cut  him,  half  turning  away 

Then  he  saw  that  they  and  their  mates  had  gath- 
ered here  for  some  insolent  or  perhaps  violent  pur- 
pose, and  his  blood  rose.  He  had  never  been  a  man 
of  the  slightest  personal  fear.  Always  he  had  prided 
himself  on  never  carrying  a  concealed  weapon,  though 


WOMEN  MUST  WEEP  317 

it  was  well  known  of  him  that  he  had  often  risked 
his  life  in  defending  the  rights  of  men  who  were  bul- 
lied and  threatened  by  rowdies  frequenting  his  differ- 
ent saloons.  And  with  his  own  unaided  strength, 
too,  he  had  repeatedly  hurled  from  his  doors  bullies 
and  roysterers.  Perhaps  memories  of  his  past  prow- 
ess and  courage  may  have  come  into  the  minds  of 
certain  watchers  who  now  gazed  on  his  dark  eyes, 
beginning  to  kindle  a  little  amid  the  pallor  of  his 
deep-s2amed  face. 

No  one  spoke  as  he  stood  there  with  one  arm  rest- 
ing on  his  bar,  bigger  of  frame  than  any  man  present 
and  wearing  an  expression  at  once  more  determined 
and  more  sad.  This  very  silence  was  in  itself  a  chal- 
lenge, and  as  such  he  chose  to  take  it.  Slowly  he 
drew  forth  his  watch  and  looked  down  at  its  disc. 
Then  he  looked  up  at  the  clock  above  the  bar,  as  if 
comparing  the  two  timepieces. 

"Tim,"  came  his  voice,  with  a  distinct  bass  roll 
amid  the  stillness,  "you'll  please  sell  no  more  drink 
here  to-night.  I  want  the  place  closed.  It's  getting 
late." 

As  Heffernan  was  turning  away  from  the  bar  a 
voice  cried  out  to  him :  "  There's  them  here  to-night, 
Andy  Heffernan,  that's  seen  you  when  you  was  glad 
enough  to  keep  open  till  three  in  the  mornin'  for  an 
extra  ten -cents . ' ' 

A  laugh  followed,  and  then  some  one  else  said: 
"Make  it  five."  This  caused  another  laugh,  louder 
and  more  general,  with  a  touch  in  it,  too,  of  greater 
defiance. 

Heffernan  had  never  been  a  hot-tempered  man. 
Heaven  help  the  professional  bar-tender  who  is  hot- 
tempered.  In  his  'prentice  days  he  had  learned  to  bear 


318  WOMEN  MUST  WEEP 

insults  when  resenting  them  would  have  been  fatally 
impolitic.  Now  he  merely  shrugged  his  shoulders  and 
walked  away.  Still,  he  meant  that  no  more  drink 
should  be  sold,  and  if  his  man  had  attempted  to  dis- 
obey him,  he  would  have  grown  coercive  in  a  trice. 

A  few  of  the  little  crowd  sauntered  out  of  doors. 
These  thinned  the  number  left  behind,  and  in  it  he 
suddenly  saw  Larry  McGonigle.  The  fellow  wore  a 
slight  scowl,  and  his  paleness  was  pronounced ;  but 
he  seemed  sober  enough.  Heifernan  scented  some 
deviltry  the  moment  his  eye  lit  on  this  creature.  He 
had  come  here  for  none  but  an  evil  purpose.  Being  fed 
for  days  with  liquor,  his  wrath  had  perhaps  grown  real- 
ly murderous.  "What  had  I  better  do?"  he  queried  of 
his  own  thoughts.  "  Gq  behind  the  bar  and  unlock 
that  drawer  with  the  revolver  in  it?  Or  shall  I  just 
cheek  him  till  he  quits  the  place?  For,  after  all,  there's 
a  strong  chance  he  don't  mean  to  risk  the  gallows  on 
my  account  or  any  other  man's." 

McGonigle  advanced,  and  seeing  him  do  so  Heffer- 
nan  stood  his  ground,  though  more  with  the  air  of 
tolerating  his  approach  than  as  if  he  were  a  waiting  it. 

But  now  a  most  unforeseen  and  hateful  thing  hap- 
pened. Nearly  opposite  the  spot  where  Heffernan  had 
stationed  himself  was  the  side-door  used  at  this  hour 
as  an  entrance  into  the  saloon.  By  this  door,  sud- 
denly and  quite  unsteadily,  entered  Gordon  Ammi- 
down. 

The  young  man's  folly  had  almost  reached  one  of 
its  mad  climaxes.  To  glance  at  his  face  was  to  read 
there  a  self-confession  of  mental  frenzy  and  turmoil . 
And  yet  in  a  way  his  mind  seemed  clear  enough ;  he 
had  the  expression  of  one  who  might  do  some 
desperate  act  but  who  would  be  unlikely  to  say  any- 
thing imbecile. 


WOMEN  MUST  WEEP  319 

Heffernan  came  forward,  grasped  his  outstretched 
hand,  and  then  drew  him  back  toward  the  further  end 
of  the  saloon.  But  Gordon  resisted  this  attempt,  and 
insisted  on  pausing  at  the  lower  end  of  the  bar. 

His  voice  was  unduly  loud,  and  his  first  words  rang 
through  the  place.  "  Threecheers  for  you,  oldfellow!" 
he  cried.  "I've  been  looking  for  you  ever  so  long.  I 
wanted  to  tell  you  how  devilish  glad  I  am  that  you 
stood  by  your  candidate  and  didn't  sell  him  out  as 
some  of  those  liars  and  slanderers  claimed  you  meant 
to  do.  I " 

1 '  Mr.  Ammidown, ' '  Heffernan  struck  in,  "I  wouldn't 
talk  about  such  things  just  here  or  just  no  w . "  His  voice 
was  the  merest  murmur,  but  Larry  McGonigle,  from 
its  evident  solicitude  of  tone,  easily  guessed  the  paci- 
fying tenor  of  its  words.  And  at  this  point  Larry 
McGonigle  chose  to  stride  much  nearer  HefFernan, 
and  while  doing  so  to  fling  out  a  fierce  jibe: 

"I  pity  any  chap  that  thinks  Andy  HefFernau  an 
honest  man,"  he  sneered,  "for  in  that  case  he's  gotto 
apologize  to  the  devil  for  his  mistake,  and  even  then 
he  won't  be  let  off  easy." 

Like  a  flash  Gordon  turned,  and  measured  the  speak- 
er with  contemptuous  eyes. 

"I  don't  know  who  you  are,"  he  said,  "and  I  don't 
much  care.  But  if  I  were  Mr.  Heffernan  I'd  teach 
you  to  manage  your  tongue  more  civilly  or  I'd  find 
out  why  you  didn't." 

There  were  a  few  growls,  at  this,  in  McGonigle's 
background,  but  he  himself  merely  turned  from  Gor- 
don with  a  shrug.  He  had  no  such  game  in  view  as 
a  quarrel  with  this  young  " brown-stone  voter,"  so 
palpably  in  his  cups.  And  now,  almost  immedi- 
ately, Heffernan  said,  with  great  coolness  and  self- 
control: 


320  IVOMKX  MUST  WEEP 

"  This  gentleman's  right.  Here's  the  last  place  in 
the  world  for  you  to  come  with  any  bluff  like  that. 
I  warn  ye,  McGonigle,  I  won't  stand  it.  I  wouldn't  if 
there  was  a  thousand  backers  behind  ye,  and  you 
can't  make  me  now.  There's  that  door.  See?  It's  late 
enough  to  close,  and  close  I  shall.  I  wish  ye  no 
harm,  but  good-night  to  ye,— and  good-night  to  all." 
•  Heffernan  had  never  in  his  life  showed  a  simpler  and 
calmer  dignity.  He  made  his  voice,  as  he  ended,  full 
of  quiet  but  very  potent  monition.  Some  of  the  men 
in  McGonigle's  rear  slipped  towrard  the  door ;  others 
(about  eight,  in  all)  pressed  up  to  the  ruffian  they  held 
worthy  of  their  adherence. 

"  Before  I  quit  your  den,"  exclaimed  AlcGonigle,  with 
a  sudden  horrible  look  of  hatred,  "  I'd  like  to  tell  plain 
out  what  mean  stuff  ye're  made  of." 

"  Gor  for  him,  Larry,"  said  a  voice,  "big  as  he  is." 
It  \vas  a  drunken  voice  and  it  added,  thickly  but  with 
a  brutish  desperation :  "I'll  help  to  see  fair  play,  an' 
so'll  the  rest  of  us." 

"Fair  play!"  cried  McGonigle,  with  a  gesture  of 
rageful  scorn  at  Heffernan.  "  That's  no  kind  of  a  man 

to  give  it  to  or  to  get  it  from.  He's "  And  then 

broke  forth  sentence  after  sentence  of  such  ribald  in- 
sult as  only  the  slums  of  the  world's  huger  towns 
can  spawn  and  foster. 

Heffernan  heard  the  tirade  through.  At  its  end  he 
had  lost  composure  for  the  first  time  that  night. 
"Leave  my  place,  "he  now  shouted  with  clinched  fists. 
"I  don't  care  for  your  filthy  tongue;  everybody  knows 
it.  But  leave  here,  I  say,  or " 

"Leave  here!"  roared  McGonigle,  with  a  sudden 
baleful  grimace.  "I'll  leave  my  traces  behind  me 
when  I  do."  And  he  whipped  forth  a  pistol, levelling 
it  at  Heffernan. 


WOMEN  MUST  WEEP  321 

"  Put  that  up!"  commanded  Gordon  darting  at  him. 
Gordon  was  no  mean  athlete,  and  the  hand  that  now 
caught  Larry's  wrist  gave  it  a  forceful  wrench.  But 
one  of  the  scoundrel's  gang  here  pushed  up  (doubtless 
with  an  intention  of  disarming  him),  and  the  contact 
of  his  body  with  the  very  hand  whose  wrist  had  just 
been  gripped  and  twisted  aside,  caused  a  horror  to 
occur.  The  muzzle  of  the  pistol  once  more  was  given 
something  like  its  former  aim,  but  not  quite  that, 
either,  for  the  head  of  Gordon  bent  just  one  fateful  in- 
stant before  it  and  in  that  instant  a  ball  leapt  out. 
Those  who  saw  said  afterward  that  they  did  not  think 
Gordon  was  hurt,  and  fancied  him  only  reeling  back- 
ward against  the  wall  in  dismay  at  his  own  rashness. 
But  all  knew  that  McGonigle's  second  bullet  hit 
Andrew  Heffernan. 

Then  someone  tore  the  pistol  from  the  assassin's 
clutch,  and  three  men  who  were  vile  enough  to  stay 
loyal  to  him  even  then,  hustled  him  out  into  the  dark- 
ness. The  others  remained,  and  yet  he  that  first 
reached.  Gordon  after  he  had  fallen  was  Heffernan, 
whose  chest  the  second  bullet  had  pierced. 

Blood  was  pouring  from  the  young  man's  temple. 
He  was  already  dead  when  Heffernan  knelt  at  his  side. 
"My  God!  Poor  boy!  His  wife — his  wife!  "  burst  in 
wild  lamentation  from  the  crouching  giant. 

Then  Heffernan's  own  wound  told,  and  he  fainted. 

It  was  quite  a  good  while  afterward  when  he  came 
back  to  consciousness  on  the  impromptu  bed  they 
had  made  for  his  great  frame  in  the  back  of  the  saloon. 
A  crowd  of  faces  were  pressing  round  him.  Some- 
one waved  them  off,  and  he  murmured  "That's  right," 
for  the  faintness  of  death  was  upon  him  and  with  in- 
exorable certainty  he  realized  it.  .  .  A  little  later  he 

21 


322  WOMEN  MUST  WEEP 

said,  looking  up  at  a  man  who  lived  near  by  and 
whom  he  respected  as  honest  and  pure  of  life : 

"I — I'd  have  quit  all  this  to-morrow.  Ask  'Liza, 
my  wife.  She'll  tell  ye.  .  poor  'Liza.  ."  And  then, 
with  glazing  eyes  and  gasping  breath:  "It's  hard  I 
— I  couldn't  show  the  wo  rid  I'd  cut  loose.  And  I  had 
cut  loose.  .  I  was  going  to  strike  right  out  along  a.  . 
different  track.  But  it  couldn't  be.  .  God  knew  best, 
I  guess.  .  'Liza.  .  'Liza.  .  ."  And  with  a  great  shudder 
of  agony — so  prolonged  and  fearful  that  some  of  his 
watchers  turned  away  their  heads  to  avoid  seeing  it 
— this  man  who  had  stood  but  a  brief  while  since  on 
the  very  threshold  of  a  noble  abnegation,  3delded  up 
his  misguided  yet  repentant  life. 

Hardly  ten  seconds  afterward  a  shriek  rang  from  a 
woman's  lips  as  she  sank  beside  him.  The  terrible 
fleetness  of  evil  news  had  made  good  with  her  its 
ghastly  repute.  People  had  burst  upon  her  \vhile 
watching  for  "  Andy  "  in  the  Second  avenue  flat  not 
far  away,  and  had  told  her  that  he  had  been  shot,  but 
that  it  was  hoped  the  wound  would  not  prove  mor- 
tal and  that  they  would  soon  bring  him  to  her  in  an 
ambulance.  But  she  would.not  hear  of  waiting;  she 
had  sped  from  the  house  to  find  him— and  had  found 
him  dead ! 

And  now,  racked  with  grief  and  wrath,  she  lifted 
one  clenched  hand,  while  her  tear-blurred  eyes  and 
back-thrown  head  gave  to  her  kneeling  figure  the 
severest  accent  of  tragedy.  "  It's  the  cursed  lack  o'  law 
in  this  cursed  town  that's  cost  him  his  life ! "  she  cried. 
"He's  come  to  his  death  because  he  tried  to  break 
away  from  the  rogues  that  rule  us  here !  He's  come  to 
his  death  because  the  men  with  money  and  brains  and 
book-learning— the  men  that  should  fight  these  thieves 


WOMEN  MUST  WEEP  323 


and  rascals  tooth  and  nail— don't  care,  and  go  on 
piling  up  dollars,  and  let  thousands  poorer  and  lower 
than  they  be  wronged  and  swindled.  He  was  one  o' 
them,  but  he  turned  against  'em,  God  bless  him  for  it! 
They  called  him  a  traitor,  but  it's  honor  and  not 
shame  to  go  back  on  vipers  like  them!"  And  here  a 
wild  laugh  broke  from  the  new-made  widow,  and  she 
lifted  both  clenched  hands  instead  of  one. 

"I  begged  him  with  all  my  soul  to  give  his  bad 
life  up,"  she  cried.  "  I  prayed  for  him,  and  I  praj'ed 
with  him.  I'm  to  blame  more  than  he  was.  If  Larry 
McGonigle's  here,  let  him  kill  me,  too,  for  I'm  more  to 
blame  than  ever  poor  Andy  was.  I  hated  the  whole 
pack  o'  vermin,  and  I  hate  'em  now.  Let  some  of 'em 
shoot  me  this  minute,  and  I'll  die,  I'll  be  glad  to  die, 
at .  .  my  .  .  murdered  .  .  husband's  .  .  side!  .  ." 

Her  last  words  came  in  gasps,  and  some  of  her 
listeners,  if  she  had  not  now  sank  down  in  a  swoon, 
would  have  believed  that  she  had  gone  mad.  .  .  When 
she  fully  recovered  her  faculties  it  was  to  find  herself 
back  in  her  own  home,  where  the  solemnity  of  death 
brooded  over  the  still  shape  of  him  she  had  lost,  and 
where  the  very  air  itself  seemed  tingling  with  the 
pathos  of  his  t  thwarted  life,  so  cruelly  cut  off  at  the 
very  verge  of  better  and  loftier  living! 


XXIV 

To  Annette  the  blow  was  one  that  words  may  but 
weakly  paint.  Affliction  sometimes  plays  with  our 
lives  like  a  wayward  child  in  a  garden.  The  stalk  is 
not  snapped  in  twain,  but  there  comes  a  moment 
when  the  least  harder  pressure  may  wreak  final  ruin. 
So  with  Annette.  She  lay  very  ill  for  several  weeks. 
Gordon's  corpse  was  carried  to  the  grave  on  a  day 
when  Eunice  and  Dora  both  watched  near  her  bed, 
dog-like  in  their  fidelity,  heedless  of  the  hired  nurse 
and  the  wise  physicians,  and  mixing  despair  of  their 
sister's  life  with  defiance  of  medical  and  professional 
demands  for  their  absence.  But  the  long  and  fierce 
battle  between  youth  and  grief  gave  at  last  victory 
to  youth, — though  grief,  like  a  foe  conscious  of  power 
uncrushed  if  maintained,  chose  retirement  in  place  of 
flight. 

After  all,  Simeon  Ammidown  told  himself,  Annette's 
fate  had  been  happier  than  his  own.  He  had  no 
merciful  physical  prostration  to  clog  his  heart-beats 
and  so  blur  his  brain.  For  him  it  was  decreed  that 
he  must  stand  and  gaze  upon  the  stirless  form  of  a 
treasured  son,  finding  in  its  very  inaction  the  last  un- 
merciful sarcasm  wreaked  by  fate  on  his  own  once- 


WOMEN  MUST  WEEP  325 


ambitious  life.  Often  in  other  days  Gordon  had 
seemed  to  him  an  incarnate  consolment  for  all  he  had 
sought,  felt  confident  of,  attempted,  and  ultimately 
missed.  Disappointment  had  before  now  dealt  him 
bitter  pangs.  But  these  were  almost  like  actual  joys 
compared  with  the  purely  unselfish  anguish  that 
bowed  and  whelmed  him  now.  Moreover,  there  was  - 
the  misery  of  his  wife  to  witness,  with  the  mingled 
sense  of  helplessness  to  soothe  her  and  of  self-reproach 
at  her  superior  "womanly  heroism.  Then  the  veiled 
sneers  of  newspaper  foes  (all  the  more  wounding  be- 
cause veiled)  had  to  be  noted  and  suffered  from.  And 
afterward  the  doom  of  missing  his  dead  both  at 
home  and  in  daily  business  cares — of  missing  him  \vith 
that  incurable  desire  which  makes  hope  turn  from  us 
•wholly  discouraged,  and  shroud  her  bright  eyes  be- 
neath her  rosy  robe.  For  Simeon  Ammidown  had 
reached  an  age  at  which  men  begin  either  to  breathe 
rich  renewals  of  contentment  through  the  gains  and 
triumphs  destiny  vouchsafes  their  children,  or  else  to 
droop  under  that  gray  and  heavy  atmosphere  which 
precedes  the  coming  of  senility  as  its  glooms  precede 
a  storm 

He  was  right,  and  the  sorrow  of  Annette  had  cheer- 
fuller  tinting  than  his  own.  Rallying,  she  \vasyoung 
enough  unconsciously  to  make  the  very  air  and  sun- 
shine tender  conspirators  in  aid  of  her  recovery. 
Then,  too,  the  arrest  and  long  trial  of  McGoiiigle 
brought  her  a  kind  of  lulling  excitement,  even  though 
indignation  and  disgust  followed. 

And  for  both  feelings  there  was  good  cause.  "In- 
fluence" (not  to  spell  the  word  in  that  form  of  dialectic 
satire  nowadays  so  familiar)  literally  mailed  this 
raw  criminal  in  a  shielding  armor.  It  is  safe  to  state 


326  WOMEN  MUST  WEEP 


that  every  eye-witness  of  his  villainy  on  that  Novem- 
ber night  lied  recklessly  concerning  it  except  one. 
That  one  was  Tim,  the  poor  moon-faced  bar-tender, 
and  he  once  or  twice  tried  frightenedly  to  tell  at  least 
something  that  resembled  truth.  But  evidence  shat- 
tering Tim's  character  into  fragments  as  minute  as 
the  punched  sugar  that  he  put  into  one  of  his  own 
fiery  cocktails,  promptly  was  either  supplied  from 
true  sources  or  else  trumped  up  from  nowhere.  A 
groan  of  contempt  rose  to  the  lips  of  all  honest  citi- 
zens when  the  jury  at  the  first  trial  found  an  agree- 
ment impossible ;  and  this  instance  of  perverted  and 
enslaved  justice  prepared  them  for  the  verdict  which 
closed  the  succeeding  trial  —  manslaughter  in  the 
second  degree.  There  was  a  flurry  of  protest,  and 
then  all  went  as  it  had  gone  before.  The  community 
swallowed  this  outrage  as  it  had  swallowed  so  many 
others. '  The  Monitor,  it  is  true,  shone  with  a 
despairing  brilliancy,  and  tore  from  the  face  of 
every  witness  who  had  striven  to  white-wash  the 
inky  guilt  of  the  culprit  his  mask  of  brazen  deceit. 
The  decent  folk  of  the  metropolis  were  made  to  know 
just  what  scoundrels  are  sometimes  permitted  to  tes- 
tify in  our  courts ;  and  the  decent  folk,  as  usual,  con- 
tented itself  by  interchanging  glances  and  saying 
"  How  very  dreadful ! "  Besides,  the  Monitor  was  a 
newspaper  with  the  disadvantage  of  belonging  to  no 
party  whatever.  And  that,  with  a  good  many  per- 
sons who  thought  belonging  to  no  party  \vhatever 
even  a  worseoffense  than  belonging  to  the  "opposite" 
party,  was  a  serious  drawback. 

After  she  had  got  well,  Annette  brought  her  sore 
and  yearning  heart  to  the  old  West  Eleventh  street 
home,  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Ammidown  and  Florence,  who 


WOMEN  MUST  WEEP  327 

had  all  three  learned  dearly  to  love  her,  all  three  re- 
belled, at  first,  when  told  of  this  intended  step.  But 
that  Annette  should  take  it  seemed  only  to  be  a  small 
irreversible  part  of  the  immense  circumstantial  scheme. 
Like  three  sisters  in  some  fairy-tale  who  had  wandered 
away  by  different  paths,  each  to  "seek  her  fortune," 
they  now  all  had  re-met  by  the  same  hearthstone 
which  had  heard  the  flowing  of  their  childish  laughter, 
their  childish  tears.  None  had  in  any  sense  "gained" 
her  fortune — except  possibly  one,  and  that  one  Dora. 
Yet  as  the  years  slipped  on  they  left  behind  them'many 
a  less  happy  household.  After  Heffernan's  death  his 
wife  had  told  her  nieces  of  his  last  secretly  generous  act 
to  themselves.  ;She  told  more,  too;  and  the  "Uncle 
Andrew"  whom  they  had  shuned  'and  shrank  from 
at  the  time  of  their  father's  death  became  in  memory 
almost  a  revered  character.  And  surely  they  w^ere 
right :  for  those  of  us  who  sin  not  because  we  are 
taught  from  our  cradles  not  to  sin  are  pygmies  be- 
side those  who  seize  upon  their  own  transgressions 
and  shape  from  them  a  stairway  by  \vhich  to  mount 
among  purer  zones  of  being. 

"There's  lots  more  money  a  year  than  I  want, 
girls,"  said  Mrs.  Heffernan,  when  her  late  husband's 
affairs  were  at  last  settled .  "I  wish  you'd  let  me  pay 
you  over  some  every  month.  I  know  you're  comf  t- 
able  enough  as  it  is,  but  then  you  might  have  another 
girl,  and  the  old  house  needs  repairing,  my  dears, 
and " 

"  Oh,  you'll  find  plenty  of  ways  to  spend  your  in- 
come, Aunt 'Liza,"  broke  in  Eunice.  "You'd  give 
away  in  charity  twice  what  you've  got." 

Mrs.  Heffernan   slowly  shook  her  head.      "Now 


328  WOMEN  MUST  WEEP 

that  he's  gone  it  seems  as  if  I  ought  to  do  with  the 
money  just  what  he'd  intended.  But  a  woman  can't 
look  into  the  business  parts  o'  these  big  charities  and 
make  sure  she  isn't  flinging  money  where  it'll  do 
more  harm  than  good.  I  mean  to  give,  though, 
where  I  am  sure,  in  sums  of  all  different  sizes." 

"  Ah,  you  dear  soul,"  laughed  Dora.  "  You  needn't 
tell  us  that!" 

They  accepted  the  monthly  augment  of  their  finan- 
ces, and  it  brightened  life  for  them  not  a  little.  Young 
Eunice  could  now  be  sent  to  the  very  best  of  schools, 
and  there  was  so  much  in  that.  The  child  was  rap- 
idly growing  in  grace,  intelligence  and  good  looks, 
and  her  two  aunts  were  already  the  fond  vassals  of 
her  slightest  whims. 

"  She  can  afford  to  do  without  a  father,"  said  Dora 
one  day  to  Mrs.  Heffernan. 

"Why,  how  do  you  mean?"  Aunt  'Liza  asked. 

"Oh,  she's  got  three  mothers,  you  know,"  Dora 
replied  with  a  smile. 

Mrs.  Heffernan  looked  grave.  Rumors  were  afloat 
in  the  air;  Eunice  and  Annette  had  both  been  talking. 
"  He's  just  crazy  to  come  back  to  her,  Aunt  'Liza," 
Eunice  had  said.  ''And  we  do  so  need  a  man  in  the 
house." 

"And  she's  very  hard  about  it, "had  affirmed  An- 
nette. "For,  after  all,  he  always  treated  her  well, 
whatever  he  did.  There's  so  much  in  that !" 

Yes,  there  is  so  much  in  that  (unfortunately,  not 
seldom)  as  to  make  many  another  -woman  more 
wronged  than  Dora  melt  and  turn  forgiving  at  the 
last.  Dora  melted  and  forgave  in  a  few  more  weeks, 
and  one  day  Kinnicutt,  handsome  and  beaming  with 


WOMEtf  MUST  WEEP 


amiability,  entered  a  room  where.  she  sat  waiting 
him,  with  his  two  allies,  Eunice  and  Annette,  walk- 
ing one  at  either  side. 

So  Dora  surrendered,  and  a  great  deal  of  happiness 
came  in  consequence  both  to  her  and  to  those  who 
had  brought  the  truce  about.  But  it  must  not  be 
supposed  that  any  deep  and  lasting  "lesson"  had  been 
taught  Kinnicutt,  or  that  he  had  now  found  it  im- 
possible to  regard  a  pretty  feminine  face  without 
thrills  of  holy  remorse.  On  the  contrary,  he  had  un- 
dergone no  such  morally  molecular  change.  He  con- 
tinued for  the  rest  of  his  life  precisely  the  one  same 
Kinnicutt,  and  Dora's  "pardon"  of  him  hadiiiit, 
just  as  she  herself  may  possibly  have  expected,  a 
strong  element  of  the  ludicrous.  But  it  was  the  in- 
evitable pardon  that  a  man  of  his  monumental  good 
nature  always  goes  on  getting  till  time  lays  its 
gradual  yet  eternal  veto  on  his  follies. 

Repeatedly  (and  with  good  practical  reason,  as 
time  lapsed  along)  both  her  sisters  fell  to  hoping  and 
even  expecting  that  Annette  would  marry  again,  .  . 
But  one  evening,  just  after  dinner,  when  this  question 
took  a  conversational  form,  the  young  widow  chose 
with  emphasis  to  exclaim: 

"No,  I've  my  recollections,  but  I've  also  my  warn- 
ings." And  at  Kinnicutt,  who  was  present,  she  shot 
a  meaning  look,  which  he  received  with  his  customary 
bland  repose.  He  had  recently  given  his  wife  new 
cause  for  unhappiness,  and  had  "made  up"  with  her 
(by  inducing  her  to  accept  for  truth  a  little  chro- 
matic tissue  of  polite  falsehood)  only  a  few  hours 
ago. 

"At  Florence's    musicale   last   night,"  continued 


330  WOMEN  MUST  WEEP 

Annette,  "a  lady  sang  that  song  of  The  Three  Fish- 
ers.' She  didn't  sing  it  anything  extra,  but  it  set  me 
thinking." 

"  Oh,  yes,"  said  Kinnicutt  amiably.  "  It's  a  lovely 
thing,  but  too  sad  .  .  too  sad  altogether." 

"  Life  is  sad,"  murmured  Dora. 

"  We  oughtn't  to  take  that  view  of  it,"  spoke  up 
Eunice,  with  a  kind  of  lecturing  cheerfulness.  She 
did  not  divine  the  drift  of  her  younger  sister's  re- 
marks; perhaps  if  she  had  done  so  she  would  have 
helped  to  draw  Annette  out,  as  it  \vere.  But  Annette 
needed  no  drawing  out. 

"There  are  those  words  in  the  song,"  she  pursued, 
"  'women  must  weep.'  And  they  must!  Oh,  the 
longer  I  live  the  more  I  feel  just  how  thev  must,  and 
why?" 

Kinnicutt  gave  one  of  his  coy,  blithe  laughs.  "Come, 
Annette,"  he  said,  "you  chop  the  verse  into  halves. 
It's 

"For  men  must  work,  and  women  must  weep," 

And  then  he  went  on,  with  a  comic  assumption  of 
gravity,  since  he  was  now  getting  quite  a  handsome 
salary  as  a  sub-editor  on  the  Monitor,  though  more 
from  the  kindness  and  sentiment  of  Annette's  father- 
in-law  than  from  any  valued  tasks  he  performed 
there:  "I'm  sure  I  know  a  lot  about  working,  though 
weeping  mayn't  be  as  much  in  my  line." 

"No,"  said  Eunice,  rather  crisply,  on  a  sudden 
having  understood  quite  well,  "you're  like  all  men, 
Harvey;  you  leave  the  weeping  for  MS  to  do." 

"Oho!"  cried  Kinnicutt,  with  merry-twinkling 
eyes.  "  And  the  scolding,  too,  sometimes !" 

Eunice  tried  to  look  severe,  which  she  never  found 


WOMEN  MUST  WEEP 


331 


half  as  easy  a  matter  with  her  brother-in-law  as 
with  most  other  people;  Dora  glided  from  the  room, 
as  if  bent  on  some  motherly  mission  to  little  Eunice; 
and  Annette  sighed,  with  the  ring  in  her  low  tones  of 
one  who  speaks  one's  musings  aloud: 

"Well,  whether  it's  women's  weeping  or  men's 
working,  I  often  think  that  men;  between  the  two, 
manage  to  have  the  best  of  matters  in  the  end." 


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ON  LAND  AND  SEA;  or,  California  in  the  Years  1843,  '44 
and  '45. 

A  graphic  description  of  country,  people  and  events  in  a  most  in- 
teresting period.  351  pages.  Never  issued  yet  in  paper  covers. 

LEWEY  AND  I ;  or,  A  Sailor  Boy's  Wanderings. 

A  sequel  to  "Land  and  Sea,"  and  the  latest  work  of  this  famous 
author.  Never  issued  yet  in  paper  covers.  407  pages. 


Readers  of  good  literature  are  advised  to  procure  Laird  &  Lee's 
I  ublications,  as  they  are  printed  in  large  type  on  excellent  paper,  pro- 
<ut«ely  illustrated,  and  bound  in  solid  and  attractive  colors. 

SO'  O  BY  ALL  NEWSDEALERS  AND  UPON  ALL  TRAINS,  OR  SUPPLIED 
BY     "-*f   PUBLISHERS. 

LAIRD  <&  LEE,  OHIO  AGO. 


The  Libraryo[Ghoice  Fiction. 

The  Rush  Continues  for  the  Complete  Works  of  this  great  poprilaf 
Writer  of  High-Class  Detective  Stories, 


.  I/gNCH,  of  the  U.  S.  Secret  Services 


SHADOWED  BY  THREE. 

The  famous  book  which  made  its  author's  reputation  known  the 
•world  over.  670  pages ;  55  fall-page  engravings. 

A  SLENDER  CLUE. 

Entirely  new,  just  out  of  the  author's  hands.  Illustrated  and 
\vith  a  speciallv  designed  cover,  in  colors.  A  modern  story  of  ex- 
citing detective  exploits.  The  equal  of  "  Shadowed  by  Three." 

JEOINA;  or,  Against  the  Mighty. 

Now  published  for  the  first  time.  62O  pages  with  sixteen  fv.11 
page  illustrations  by  Henry  Maver.  Worthy  of  the  great  reputation 
of  ths  author.  Highly  spoken  of  by  the  press,  all  over  the 
country. 

MADELINE  PAYNE,  the  Detective's  Daughter. 

There  is  a  great  deal  of  true  emotional  feeling  in  this  captivating 
took.  453  pages;  45  full-page  engravings. 

THE  LOST  WITNESS;  or,  The  Mystery  of  Leah  Paget. 

The  incidents  of  this  strong  story  are  brought  out  with  a  great 
power  of  realization.  557  pages  ;  16  full-page  engravings. 

DANGEROUS  GROUND ;  or,  The  Rival  Detectives. 

>  pages,  with  45  full-page  i 
in  a  masterly  fashion — not  a  dull  page  or 
line  in  it.' 

OUT  OP  A  LABYRINTH. 

471  pages  -with  36  full-page  illustrations.  The  Post  write*: 
*'The  man  who  -wrote  'Dangerous  Ground'  could  not  write  a  tai*e 
book  if  he  tried!" 

THE  DIAMOND  COTERIE. 

557  pages  and  47  full-page  illustrations.  A  fully  organized  gang 
of  malefactors  -with  a  cunning  ex-detective  at  is  head,  are  "run 
down"  by  an  officer  of  uncommon  skill  and  undaunted  bravery. 
Ready  October,  1891. 

A  MOUNTAIN  MYSTERY;  or,  The  Outlaws  of  the  Rockies. 

600  pages  with  36  full-page  illustrations.  The  tale  unfolds  itself 
among  the  reckless  adventurers  who  ruled  the  Rocky  Mountains  be- 
fore the  creation  of  the  Pacific  R.  R.  Ready  November,  1891. 


A  thrilling  story  of  426  pages,  with  45  full-page  Illustrations. 
|A  fascinating  plot  handled  ii 


Readers  of  good  literature  are  advised  to  procure  I/alrd  &  I/ee'S 
ublications,  as  they  are  printed  in  large  type  on  excellent  paper,  pro 
ISC:T  ^iuatrated,  and  bound  in  solid  and  attractive  covers. 

SOLD  BY  ALL  NEWSDEALERS  AND  UPON  ALL  TRAINS,  OR  SUPPLIED 


•0,0, 


BY  THE  PUBLISHERS. 

LAIRD  &  LEE,  CHICAGO. 


The  Library  of  Choice  Fiction, 

CHOICE  IN  READING  MATTER. 

CHOICE  IN  ILLUSTRATIONS. 
Choice  In  every  thing:  that  Constitutes  A.  z  Books* 

MADEMOISELLE  de  MAUPIN. 

By  The'ophile  Gautier.  It  is  considered  by  every  critic  in  the 
world  to  be  the  very  finest  romance  of  the  century.  413  pages;  16 
illustrations  from  the  original  etchings  by  Toudooze. 

CAMILLE. 

By  Alexandre  Dumas,  fits.  This  world-famed  book  is  illustrated 
with  16  half-tone  engravings  from  original  French  etchings.  Re- 
quisite cover  in  colors. 

A.  D.  2000. 

By  Lieut.  Alvarado  M.  Fuller,  U.  S.  A.  412  pages;  16  half-tone 
illustrations  on  enameled  paper.  "A  fascinating  narrative  of  what 
the  near  future  has  in  reserve  for  our  descendants." 

NOTRE  CflEUR. 

By  Guy  de  Maupassant,  the  celebrated  French  novelist.  Trans- 
lated by  Alexina  Loranger.  With  12  photo-gravures  on  enameled 
paper,  including  the  author's  portrait.  An  admirable  Parisian  story. 

PIERRE  ET  JEAN.    (Peter  and  John.) 

By  Guy  de  Maup  ^ssant,  author  of  "  Bel-Ami."  A  striking  novel 
of  deep  pathos,  illustrated  with  eight  half-tones  on  enameled  paper. 

THE  RICH  MAN'S  FOOL. 

By  Robert  C.  Givins.  An  American  story  of  startling  adventures. 
43O  pages,  with  17  photo-gravures  on  enameled  paper. 

THE  CHOUANS. 

By  Honor6  de  Balzac,  the  head  and  chief  of  modern  fiction.  New 
translation  by  George  Saintsbury ;  with  1OO  wood  engravings  by 
Leveillfe,  from  sketches  by  Julian  Le  Blant. 

SUCH  IS  LIFE. 

By  Albert  Delpit,  author  of  "Her  Sister's  Rival,"  illustrated  with 
sixteen  pen  drawings.  Albert  Delpit  is  a  Louisiana-born  Creole  who 
ranks  among  the  best  modern  Frerch  writers. 

AN  UNCONSCIOUS  CRIME. 

By  Dr.  N.  T.  Oliver,  author  of  the  "King  of  Gold."  With  six. 
teen  full-page  illustrations.  The  press,  all  over  the  country,  has 
spoken  very  highly  of  this  last  work  from  the  pen  of  this  talented 
writer. 

A  CHRONICLE  OF  THE  REIGN  OF  CHARLES  IX. 

By  Prosper  Merimee,  translated  by  George  Saintsbury.  Illus- 
trated with  100  engravings  on  wood  from  drawings  by  Toudouze. 


Readers  of  good  literature  are  advised  to  procure  Laird  &  Lee's 
Publications,  as  they  are  printed  in  large  type  on  excellent  paper,  pro- 
fusely illustrated,  and  bound  in  solid  and  attractive  colors. 

SOLD  BY  ALL  NEWSDEALERS  AND  UPON  ALL  TRAINS,  OR  SUPPLIED 
BY  THE  PUBLISHERS. 

LAIRD  <&  LEE,  CHICAGO. 


The  Library  of  Choice  Fiction. 

*7noaralleled   Success,   due  to  the  Excellence  of  the  Make-TJp  a* 
well  as  to  the  Talent  and  Reputation  of  the  Authors. 


.JADAME  BOY  ART ;  or,  Loved  to  the  Last 

By  Gustave  Flaubert.  414  pages,  with  a  preface  by  Max  Mau.> 
and  twelve  full-page  half-tone  illustrations  from  original  Etchings. 
The  first  and  only  American  Edition  of  this  admirable  work.  With 
a  cover  in  four  colors  designed  by  Auguste  Leroy. 

HER  SISTER'S  RIVAL. 

By  Alfred  Delpit,  author  of  "Such  is  Life."  321  pages  with  eight 
full-page  half-tone  illustrations  from  drawings  made  for  us  in  Paris 
under  the  author's  own  supervision.  Beautiful  cover  in  colors 
sketched  by  a  w^11  ''nown  artist. 

THE  WOMAN  OF  FIRE. 

By  Auguste  Belot,  author  of  "Mademoiselle  Giraud,  my  wife." 
376  pages,  with  twelve  full-page  illustrations  from  the  Parisian 
plates  themselves,  imported  into  this  country  at  great  expense.  Ex- 
quisite cover  in  five  colors  by  our  own  designer. 

BEL-AMI. 

By  Guy  de  Maupassant.  The  master-piece  of  the  famous  author 
of  "Notre  Coeur"  and  "Pierre  et  Jean,"  with  a  frontispiece  in  half-tone 
by  Herbert  Butler,  and  bound  in  a  handsome  cover  in  two  colors. 

A  LIFE'S  DECEIT.    (Oerminie  Lacerteux.) 

By  Edmond  and  Jules  de  Goncourt.  Containing  1O  photo-prav- 
ures  from  original  French  Etchings.  One  of  the  leading  works  of  the 
great  realistic  writers.  Unique  cover  in  colors  by  A.  Leroy. 

QUEEN  OF  THE  WOODS. 

By  Andr£  Theuriet,  235  pages.  Illustrated  with  thirty-two  beau- 
tiful half-tone  engravings,  each  one  a  work  of  art.  "  The  story  is  one 
of  love,  remarkable  for  its  tenderness  and  purity."  The  make-up  of 
this  volume  is  in  every  way  unique  and  worth  three  times  the  money. 

MAUPRAT;  or,  The  Bandit  Noblemen. 

By  George  Sand.  Beautifully  illustrated  and  with  a  specially 
designed  cover.  A  poignant  story  of  love  and  adventures  in  the 
heart  of  a  French  forest.  The  incidents  are  as  dramatic  as  the  per- 
sonages are  powerfully  drawn. 

THE  YOUNGEST  BROTHER;  a  Socialistic  Romance. 

From  the  German  of  Ernst  Wichert,  by  "  Kannida."  Specially 
illustrated  by  Henry  Mayer.  A  book  which  has  caused  a  deep  sensa- 
tion all  over  Europe  and  America. 

THE  CARTARET  AFFAIR. 

By  St.  George  Rathborne,  author  of  "  Dr.  Jack."  with  sixteen 
full  page  engravings  by  Henry  Mayer.  "Endorsed  by  the  press, 
welcomed  by  the  reading  public." 

Readers  of  good  literature  are  advised  to  procure  I/alrd  &  I<ee'a 
Publications,  as  they  are  printed  in  large  type  on  excellent  paper,  pro- 
fusely illustrated,  and  bound  in  solid  and  attractive  covers. 

"OLD  BY  ALL  NEWSDEALERS  AND  UPON  ALL  TRAINS.  OR  SUPPUS» 
BY  THE  PUBLISHERS. 

LAIRD  <&  LEE,  CHIGAGO 


The  Library  of  Choice  Fiction. 

Gr<yvs,  Month  after  Month,  in  Deserved  Popularity.    We  steadily  add  to  it 
the  most  Prominent  Works  from  Authors  of  World-wide  Celebrity. 


AMONG  OUR      VERY    LATEST"  ARE  FOUND: 
DUCHESS  ANNETTE.     By  Alexandre  Dumas,  Fils. 

This  is  one  of  the  three  great  novels  of  Alexandre  Dumas,  fils,  a  com  • 
panion  to  "Camille"  and  the  "Clemenceau  Case."  It  is  an  entirely  new 
edition,  from  the  pen  of  Max  Maury,  and  with  eight  exceptionally  fine  full- 
page  illustrations  drawn  specially  for  this  edition,  by  A.  Leroy.  Superb 
cover  in  four  colors.  Every  detail  new  and  striking. 
FRANCESCA  da  RIMINA.  Translated  from  the  German  by  "Kannida." 

This  book  by  the  celebrated  German  author,  Ernst  von  Wildenbruch,  is 
a  sweet  and  poignant  story  of  love  and  love's  troubles.  It  takes  place  in 
our  time,  amidst,  a  picturesque  population  of  officers  and  society  people; 
Not  a  line  of  this  beautiful  book  could  offend  the  modesty  of  a  young  girl. 
Auguste  Leroy  has  contributed  eight  f  ull-pago  original  illustrations  of  real 
olors  ex 


artistic  value;  also  a  cover  in  colors  extremely  attractive. 
A  MAAI  OF  HONOR.     By  Octave  Feuillet. 

Written  (under  the  title  of  "  M.  do  Camors")  by  the  famous  French 
academician,  Octave  Feuillet,  the  author  of  "A  Parisian  Romance,"  the 
"Romance  of  a  Poor  Young  Man,"  and  othe?  celebrated  books.  "A  Man 
of  Honor  "  is  acknowledged  to  be  one  of  the  ten  greatest  novels  of  the  cen- 
tury. A  portrait  of  the  author,  and  eleven  full-page  illustrations  from  origi- 
nal etchings,  make  this  book  a  most  superb  volume. 

A  beautiful  cover  in  colors. 
SAVED  BY  A  DREAM.     By  Consuelo. 

Fully  illustrated  by  Anguste  Leroy  and  with  an  exqnisite  cover  in  four 
colors.    This  extraordinary  book  is  a  singular  blending  of  imaginative 
power  of  the  highest  order  and  of  striking  facts  interpreted  by  its  light, 
THE  MARRIAGE  OF  GERARD.     By  Andre  Theuriet. 

Andr6  Thenriet,  the  author  of  "  Queen  of  the  Wood  s,"  and  so  many  other 
exquisite  stories  of  country  life,  is  at  the  head  or  those  French  authors  whose 
books  can  be  placed,  without  reserve,  into  the  hands  of  young  people  as  well 
as  older  ones.  His  stories  are  captivating  and  filled  with  true  pathos,  and 
with  the  very  finest  descriptions  of  scenery  and  character.  "  The  Marring 
of  Gerard,"  translated  by  Mary  Lindsay  Watkins,  contains  sixteen  full-page 
illustrations,  and  a  cover  in  several  colors,  designed  expressly  for  this 
edition  (the  only  translation  extant)  by  Augnsto  Leroy. 
WHAT  IT  COST;  OR,  DEBTOR  AND  CREDITOR.  By  F.  and  I.  E.  Sullivan. 

A  splendid  story,  capitally  told,  of  bravery  on  the  field  and  devotion  nt 
home.  The  heart  beats  with  the  noblest  emotions  while  the  eyes  peruse  this 
touching  and  enthralling  narrative,  based  on  fact.  Five  full-page  illustra- 
tions and  unique  cover  by  Auguste  Leroy. 

SAPPHO.    By  Alphonse  Daudet. 

Another  of  the  ten  greatest  novels  ever  written.  We  have  secured  from 
France  a  eet  of  magnificent  illustrations  from  original  etchings,  which 
make  our  edition  the  finest  of  all  in  an  artistic  as  well  as  literary  point  of 
view.  This  is  distinctly  the  only  edition  of  "  Sappho  "  published  in  English 
with  these  superb  etchings. 

Readers  of  good  literature  are  advised  to  procure  Laird  &  Lee's  Pub- 
lications, as  they  are  printed  in  large  type  on  excellent  paper,  profusely  illus- 
trated, and  bound  in  solid  and  attractive  covers. 

FOLD  BY  ALL  NEWSDEALERS  AND  UPON  ALL  TRAINS,  OR  SUPPLIED 
BY  THE  PUBLISHERS. 


UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA  LIBRARY 

Los  Angeles 
This  book  is  DUE  on  the  last  date  stamped  below. 


CLA  URL/ILL 


HiC'9  IB-WM, 

JAN  0*1998 


Form  L9-100m-9,'52(A3105)444 


f  California.  Los  Angeies 


L  005  238  378  3 


